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War-Time  Sketches 


Historical  and  Otherwise 


BY 

ADELAIDE  STUART  DIMITRY 


HISTORIAN  "STONEWALL  JACKSON  CHAPTER  OF  NEW  ORLEANS 

No. 1135"  U.  D.  C. 

(1909-1911) 


LOUISIANA  PRINTING  CO.  PRESS, 

NEW  ORLEANS,  LA. 


THE  LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


COPYRIGHT 
APPLIED  FOR 


PREFACE 


The  following  papers,  written  by  Mrs.  Dimitry  while  Historian  of 
the  "Stonewall  Jackson  Chapter"  of  New  Orleans,  were  intended  not 
solely  to  amuse  and  interest,  but  primarily  to  set  forth  in  correct  form 
historic  events  of  the  war  of  1861-'65,  and  further  to  preserve  and  hand 
down  to  an  interested  posterity  incidents  semi-biogrpahical  which 
otherwise  would  have  passed  into  oblivion. 

The  author  has  derived  her  data  not  alone  from  written  history, 
but  largely  from  the  lips  of  those  who  were  participants  in  that  memor- 
able struggle — men  who  had  been  comrades  of  Mumford,  confreres 
of  Benjamin,  and  survivors  of  the  ill-fated  Louisiana.  Material  for  the 
sketches  of  social  life  were  drawn  from  the  reminiscences  of  war-time 
women,  mostly  members  of  the  Chapter,  and  all  are  based  upon  inci- 
dents occurring  in  real  life.  They  shed  side-lights  upon  the  manners, 
customs  and  dress  of  that  troublous  period  and  reflect  in  their  shining 
depths  the  high  courage  and  quick  wit  of  the  women  of  the  Southland. 

As  a  woman  of  the  sixties  Mrs.  Dimitry  herself  writes  in  propria 
persona  for  she  was  one  of  the  signers  of  those  "fair  Confederate  bank 
notes,"  serving  the  Confederate  government  until  its  downfall.  Born 
of  splendid  Southern  lineage,  a  Mississippian,  but  of  the  Stuart  family 
of  Virginia  and  cousin  to  that  chevalier  Stuart  "sans  peur  and  sans 
reproche,"  she  was  qualified  both  by  birth  and  experience  to  write 
feelingly  and  in  authentic  fashion.  As  the  wife  and  intellectual  help- 
mate of  Prof.  John  Dimitry,  she  lived  in  an  atmosphere  of  culture  and 
scholarship. 

Professor  Dimitry  came  of  a  family  of  educators  and  literary  folk 
and  was  himself  an  historian  of  considerable  merit,  notable  among  his 
works  being  a  "School  History  and  Geography  of  Louisiana"  and  "The 
Confederate  Military  History  of  Louisiana."  In  this  connection  we 
can  not  refrain  from  quoting  his  peerless  epitaph  to  Albert  Sidney 
Johnston,  engraved  in  the  tomb  of  the  Army  of  Tennessee,  Metairie 
Cemetery,  New  Orleans.  In  its  epigrammatic  terseness  of  phrase, 
beauty  of  diction  and  poetic  depth  of  feeling  it  deserves  to  rank  as  a 
classic. 


r~ 
cr 


Behind  this  Stone  is  laid, 
For  a  Season, 

ALBERT  SYDNEY  JOHNSTON 

A  General  in  the  Army  of  the  Confederate  States, 
Who  fell  at  Shiloh,  Tennessee, 
On  the  sixth  day  of  April,  A.  D., 
Eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-two. 
A  man  tried  in  many  high  offices 

And  critical  Enterprises, 
And  found  faithful  in  all; 
His  life  was  one  long  Sacrifice  of  Interest  to  Conscience; 
And  even  that  life,  on  a  woeful  Sabbath, 
Did  he  yield  as  a  Holocaust  at  his  Country's  Need. 
Not  wholly  understood  was  he  while  he  lived; 
But,  in  his  death,  his  Greatness  stands  confess-'d 

In  a  People's  tears. 
Resolute,  moderate,  clear  of  envy,  yet  not  wanting 
In  that  finer  Ambition,  which  makes  men  great  and  pure; 
In  his  Honor — impregnable; 
In  his  Simplicity — sublime; 
No  Country  e'er  had  a  truer  Son — no  'Cause  a  nobler  Champion; 
No  People  a  bolder  Defender — no  Principle  a  purer  Victim, 
Than  the  dead  Soldier 
Who  sleeps  here! 
The  Cause  for  which  he  perished  is  lost — 
The  People  for  whom  he  fought  are  crush'd — 
The  Hopes  in  which  he  trusted  are  shatter'd — 
The  Flag  he  loved  guides  no  more  the  charging  lines; 
But  his  Fame,  consigned  to  the  keeping  of  that  Time,  which, 
Happily,  is  not  so  much  the  Tomb  of  Virtue  as  its'  Shrine, 
Shall,  in  the  years  to  come,  fire  Modest  Worth  to  Noble  Ends. 
In  honor,  now,  our  great  Captain  rests; 

A  bereaved  People  mourn  him; 
Three  Commonwealths  proudly  claim  him; 
And  History  shall  cherish  him 
Among  those  Choicer  Spirits,  who,  holding  their  Conscience  unmix'd 

with  blame, 
Have  been,  in  all  Conjectures1,  true  to  themselves,  their  People,  and 
their  God. 
******** 

Realizing  as  loyal  Daughters  of  the  Confederacy  that  a  true  and 
absolutely  unbiased  history  of  the  war  between  the  States  has  yet  to 
be  written  and  that  ours  is  the  task  of  insisting  on  the  truth  of  history 
as  taught  and  of  helping  collect  and  preserve  historic  data,  much  of 
which  is  fast  passing  into  oblivion  with  the  ever-thinning  ranks  of  the 
gray,  this  Chapter  has  accordingly  striven  to  make  the  historic  a 
salient  feature  of  its  work.  As  Daughter  and  Historian  Mrs1.  Dimitry 
was  ever  faithful  to  her  trust,  and  in  her  tender  yet  impartial  way  has 
embalmed  sweet  memories  in  our  hearts  and  written  herself  down 
among  those  choicer  spirits  who  "have  been,  in  all  conjunctures,  true 
to  themselves1,   their  people  and  their  God." 

M.  G.  H. 


CONTENTS. 


PART  I. 


Page 

The  Battle  of  the  Handkerchiefs i 

William  B .   Mumf ord 6 

The  Queen  of  the  Mississippi 1 1 

Mcmminger's  Canaries  _ 1 6 

Judah  P.  Benjamin 21 

The  Louisiana  28 

Four  Richmond  Girls 34 

The  Halt 37 

PART  II. 

The  Confederate  Girl  (Part  I) 41 

The  Confederate  Girl  (Part  II) 46 

A  True  Story .". „ 52 

Davidson's  Raid  58 

A  Rambling  Talk  of  Richmond 63 

A  Woman  of  the  Sixties _ 67 

A  Confederate  Hoop  Skirt y2 

Mrs.   O'Flaherty's    Funeral _ „ 79 

An  Incident  of  the  Reconstruction 83 

Freedom's  Shriek  87 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://archive.org/details/wartimesketcheshdimi 


WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 


PART 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  HANDKERCHIEFS. 

IN  THE  early  forenoon  of  February  20,  1863,  a  whisper  ran 
through  New  Orleans  that  the  Confederate  soldiers  in 
the  city  were  to  be  taken  that  day  aboard  the  "Empire 
Parish,"  Capt.  Caldwell  commanding,  and  transported  to  Baton 
Rouge  for  an  exchange  of  Union  prisoners. 

The  whisper  grew  in  volume  until  it  reached  the  ears  of 
the  Confederate  women  of  the  city.  At  once,  gentle  and  sim- 
ple, old  and  young,  matron  and  maid  hurried  to  the  levee  to 
give  the  boys  in  gray  a  warm  "God  bless  you  and  good-bye." 
One  o'clock  was  the  hour  fixed  for  the  departure  of  the 
prisoners,  but  long  before  the  stroke  of  the  hammer  on  its  bell, 
the  levee  for  many  blocks  was  densely  crowded  with  people — 
a  number  estimated  by  some  at  20,000.  No  New  Orleans 
woman  who  had  a  brother,  husband  or  son  on  that  prison  boat 
could  have  been  kept  away.  These  loving  and  patriotic  women 
— many  of  them  wearing  knots  of  red-white-and-red  ribbon  or 
rosettes  of  palmetto,  or  carrying  magnificent  boquets  of  roses, 
camelias  and  violets — like  the  flow  of  an  ocean  tide,  steadily 
poured  through  Canal  Street  on  their  way  to  the  river  front. 
They  debouched,  a  living  torrent,  upon  the  levee  in  front  of 
the  "Empire  Parish" — a  boat  around  which  guerilla  guns  had 
recently  been  quite  busy.  What  a  waving  of  handkerchiefs 
was  there  and  glad  cries,  and  wafting  of  kisses  as  the  sight  of 
a  loved  face  was  caught  in  the  prisoner  crowd  on  deck !  In  the 
throng  on  the  levee,  redeeming  it  from  the  epithet  "mob" 
could  be  noted  many  ladies  prominent  in  culture  and  social 
position.  Among  these  were  the  poet  Xariffa,  dear  to  all  Lou- 
isiana hearts ;  Miss  Kate  Walker,  the  courageous  young  hero- 


WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 


ine  of  Confederate  flag  episode,  and  Mrs.  D.  R.  Graham,  then 
a  young  wife  and  mother. 

At  first,  the  crowd  was  orderly  though  emotional,  as  was 
to  be  expected.  Soon,  between  the  soldiers  on  the  boat  and 
some  of  the  Federals  on  shore  began  a  banter  of  wits  as  to 
what  each  might  expect  the  next  time  they  met.  Some  ladies 
also,  who  were  adept  in  the  use  of  the  deaf  and  dumb  language, 
were  using  this  form  of  wireless  telegraphy  in  talking  to  their 
prisoner  friends.  Through  the  dumb  spelling  tossed  off  upon 
their  fingers  under  the  eye  of  the  unwitting  sentinel,  they 
learned  that  the  baskets  and  boxes  of  delicacies  sent  to  the 
Confederate  prisoners  in  the  Foundry  prison  had  fed  the  thiev- 
ish Federal  guards  instead  of  the  dear  ones  for  whom  intended 
This  unwelcome  news  made  more  pronounced  the  attitude  of 
defiance  gradually  assumed  by  the  crowd.  A  wave  of  restless- 
ness was  sweeping  over  it.  Some  one  cheered  for  Jeff  Davis. 
A  dozen  resonant  voices  joined  in  the  cheer,  and  quickly  fol- 
lowed with  a  "Hurrah  for  the  Confederacy,"  or  as  a  Northern 
writer  puts  it,  "shouted  other  diabolical  monstrosities."  The 
feeling  growing  more  tense  every  minute  was  too  strained  for 
safety,  and  sure  to  snap  in  twain.  Listen  to  the  narrative  of 
a  participator  in  much  that  occurred  on  this  eventful  occasion : 
"I  do  not  know  who  conceived  the  idea  of  going"  (in  order 
to  be  nearer  the  prisoners),  "on  the  'Laurel  Hill,'  the  large 
river  steamer  lying  beside  the  'Empire  Parish.'  My  com- 
panions and  myself  saw  the  move  and  followed  the  crowd  on 
board.  As  the  day  advanced,  the  numbers  grew  so  great  that 
their  demonstrations  of  love  and  respect  nettled  the  Federals. 
It  was  an  'ovation  to  treason'  as  they  were  pleased  to  term  it, 
and  they  peremptorily  ordered  us  to  'leave  the  boat,  go  off  the 
levee,  disperse.'  The  women  could  see  no  treason  in  what 
they  were  doing — merely  looking  at  their  friends  and  waving 
a  farewell  to  them — so  they  made  no  move  to  obey.  And  this 
was  what  started  the  trouble.  An  officer,  presumably  under 
orders  from  Captain  Thomas,  then  in  charge,  gave  the  order 
to  withdraw  the  plank  and  cut  the  'Laurel  Hill'  loose  from  its 
moorings.  Jammed  from  stem  to  stern  with  brave  and  daunt- 
less women,  little  children  and  nurses  with  babes  in  their 
arms,  the  boat,  with  stars  and  stripes  flying  from  its  jackstaff, 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 


drifted  slowly  far  down  the  river  to  the  Algiers  side.  We  held 
our  breath  as  we  went  off,  for  we  were  much  startled  to  find 
ourselves  running  away  from  the  'Empire  Parish,'  but  we 
waved  a  brave  good-bye  with  our  handkerchiefs  to  those  on 
shore  and  they  could  not  be  kept  from  waving  to  us. 

"After  passing  beyond  the  city,  we  wondered  if  they  were 
taking  us  to  Fort  Jackson  to  shut  us  up  as  prisoners  of  war. 
'Many  a  good  Confederate  has  groaned  within  its  stony  walls, 
why  should  we  escape?' — we  whispered  to  each  other  drearily 
— 'but  at  least  it  will  be  better  than  Ship  Island.' 

"During  our  enforced  excursion  down  the  river,  we  learned 
afterward  the  Federals  had  certain  streets  guarded  and  per- 
mitted no  one  to  pass.  Relatives  of  the  unwilling  passengers 
on  the  'Laurel  Hill'  were  wild  with  fear  for  their  loved  ones, 
and  tried  to  get  to  the  levee,  but  the  guards  brutally  turned 
them  back." 

While  the  "Laurel  Hill"  was  drifting  out  of  sight,  on  the 
levee  the  crisis  had  been  reached.  The  Federal  guards  grew 
tired  of  the  noisy  but  harmless  demonstrations  and  arbitrarily 
ordered  the  women  to  "fall  back,  fall  back,  and  stop  waving 
their  handkerchiefs."  They  talked  to  the  winds.  Above  the 
rasping  order  of  the  guards  was  heard  a  laughing  retort : 
"Can't  do  it.  General  Jackson  is  in  the  rear,  and  stands  like  a 
Stonewall.  Again  was  the  order  repeated  and  still  above  the 
din  of  voices  and  confusion  of  the  multitude  came  the  same 
jeering  response  that  was  caught  up  by  the  crowd  like  the 
echo  from  a  bugler's  blast.  In  the  bright  sunshine  and  friendly 
river  breeze,  more  briskly  than  ever,  fluttered  and  waved  the 
exasperating  and  much  anathemized  handkerchiefs.  Finally, 
Gen.  Banks  being  informed  of  the  state  of  affairs,  sent  down 
the  26th  Massachusetts  Regiment  to  clear  the  levee. 

With  the  hope  of  quelling  the  rising  tumult,  augmented 
by  the  arrival  of  the  regiment,  a  cannon  was  brought  out  and 
trained  upon  the  multitude,  the  soldiers  not  caring  who  were 
terrified  or  hurt.  In  the  meantime,  imagine  the  feelings  of 
those  Confederate  prisoners  on  the  boat,  forced  to  witness  the 
cruel  act  of  cutting  loose  the  "Laurel  Hill"  with  its  freight  of 
five  hundred  women  and  children,  and  the  cannon  turned  on 
the  helpless  crowd  on  the  levee ! 


WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 


But  Gen.  Banks  met  more  than  he  reckoned  upon.  His 
cannon  neither  killed  nor  drove  the  women  away,  for,  accord- 
ing to  a  Union  writer,  they  presented  "an  impenetrable  wall 
of  silks,  flounces  and  graceless  impudence."  The  excitement 
was  at  fever  heat.  The  women  now  wrought  to  frenzy  with 
heartache  and  nerves,  would  not  budge  an  inch,  would  not 
drop  a  single  handkerchief  even  though  faced  by  the  mur- 
derous cannon.  The  soldiers  first  threatened  them  with  the 
bayonet,  and  afterwards  actually  charged  upon  them,  driving 
every  woman  and  child  two  sauares  from  the  levee.     But 

"Defiant,  both  of  blow  and  threat, 
Their  handkerchiefs  still  waved," 

and  the  onset  of  the  soldiers  was  unflinchingly  met  with  the 
parasols  and  handkerchiefs  of  the  women.  Only  one  casualty 
was  reported — that  of  a  lady  wounded  in  the  hand  by  the 
thrust  of  a  bayonet.  After  the  fray  the  ground  was  covered 
with  handkerchiefs  and  broken  parasols.  At  last,  the  bellig- 
erent women,  tired  out  but  not  subdued,  went  home  to  sleep 
in  their  beds.  So  much  for  the  battle  on  the  levee.  Our  nar- 
rator on  the  "Laurel  Hill"  resumes  : 

"I  do  not  know  how  far  down  the  river  we  were  taken, 
but  I  do  know  we  had  nothing  to  eat.  In  the  late  afternoon 
the  boat  hands  were  marched  into  the  cabin  to  eat  their  sup- 
per and,  when  they  had  finished  and  marched  out  again,  we 
were  told  we  could  have  the  hard-tack  and  black  coffee  that 
was  left.  Some  of  us  were  too  hungry  to  resist  eating,  but  the 
majority  took  no  notice  of  the  invitation.  Not  one  of  the 
ladies  showed  fear  or  anxiety.  If  they  felt  either,  they  would 
not  gratify  the  Federals  that  much.  The  bright  and  witty 
girls  made  things  very  amusing  with  their  repartee,  when  a 
good  humored  officer  came  among  us,  but  some  there  were 
that  were  surly,  and  the  guards  at  the  head  of  the  gangway 
heard  many  a  caustic  aside  expressive  of  contempt  for  Yankees 
and  devotion  to  the  Confederates.  There  was  no  white  feather 
among  them. 

"Slowly  we  drifted  on,  and  no  one  would  tell  us  where 
the  Captain  was  taking  us.  After  we  were  prisoners  for  a 
few  hours,  the  ladies  in  passing  through  the  cabin  would  ring 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 


the  bell  to  let  our  captors  know  we  were  hungry,  but  none 
took  the  gentle  hint  and  soon  the  bell  disappeared. 

"That  night  about  nine  o'clock  we  were  brought  back  to 
the  city,  and  when  we  were  near  the  landing  and  saw  that  it 
was  indeed  home,  dear  old  New  Orleans,  we  felt  so  happy 
that  we  broke  out  into  singing  "The  Marseillaise,"  "The  Bonnie 
Blue  Flag,"  and  all  the  Confederate  songs  we  could  think  of — 
our  own  dear  poet,  'Xariffa'  leading  the  singing.  This  deeply 
angered  our  Federal  captors.  To  punish  us,  they  said  we 
should  not  land,  and  proceeded  to  back  out  into  midstream, 
where  they  anchored  for  the  night.  The  next  morning,  after 
sunrise,  we  were  brought  to  the  levee  again — a  starving  crowd 
and  cold  from  the  night  air.  They  set  us  free,  I  suppose  be- 
cause they  did  not  know  what  else  to  do  with  so  many  ob- 
stinate rebel  women." 

So  ends  the  celebrated  "Battle  of  the  Handkerchiefs," 
courageously  fought  on  the  levee,  February  20th,  1863,  by 
the  Confederate  women  of  New  Orleans. 


Authorities  Upon  Which  Above  Article  Was  Based. 

Daily  True  Delta,  March  23,  1863. 
Rightor's  History  of  New  Orleans. 

Written  data  furnished  by  Mrs.  David  R.  Graham — a  par- 
ticipator. 

Mrs.  W.  J.  Behan's  "Confederate  Scrap  Book." 
Mrs.  Simeon  Toby's  Confederate  Scrap  Book." 
"The  Battle  of  the  Fair,"  a  leaflet  written  for  the  benefit 
of  the  Orphan's  Asylum  and  signed  "Miranda." 


WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 


WM.  B.  MUMFORD. 

ON  THE  26th  of  April,  1862,  a  boat  manned  by  a  few 
marines  under  command  of  a  lieutenant,  put  off  from 
the  war  sloop  Pensacola  that  was  anchored  in  the 
harbor  of  New  Orleans.  It  landed  at  the  foot  of  Esplanade 
Avenue,  and  its  occupants  hurriedly  marched  to  the  Mint. 
Acting  without  orders  from  Flag  Officer  Farragut  of  the  hos- 
tile fleet,  then  abreast  the  city,  the  marines  under  the  direction 
of  their  officer,  hoisted  the  Stars  and  Stripes  over  the  build- 
ing that  had  been  in  possession  of  the  Confederate  Govern- 
ment for  more  than  a  year.  As  unwise  an  act,  in  the  frenzied 
state  of  the  public  mind,  as  was  the  precipitate  conduct  of  our 
young  men  later  on. 

In  the  crowd  that  soon  gathered  watching  the  marines  at 
their  nefarious  work  were  four  young  men — Canton,  Burgess, 
Harper  and  Wm.  B.  Mumford.  These  felt  it  impossible,  at 
a  word,  to  change  allegiance  from  the  government  of  their 
choice  to  one  they  had  repudiated ;  and,  certainly,  to  the  cit- 
izens of  New  Orleans  at  that  time,  this  over-bold  United 
States  flag  was  as  much  foreign  as  that  of  the  two  domina- 
tions, French  and  Spanish,  which  once  wielded  authority  in 
the  State.  By  what  right  was  it  there? — New  Orleans  had  not 
surrendered.  Gazing  at  the  hated  symbol  of  oppression  forced 
upon  them  as  it  challenged  the  Louisiana  sunshine  and  dar- 
ingly waved  in  the  river  breeze,  and  catching  sight  of  blue 
uniforms,  not  quite  the  fashion  in  this  State  since  January  26, 
1861,  there  was  a  sudden  blinding  rush  of  blood  to  the  head 
that  upset  the  balance  of  reason.  It  was  too  much  for  the 
patriotic  quartette.  Madly  dashing  upstairs,  the  first  to  seize 
the  unwelcome  flag  was  young  Harper,  but  Mumford  was 
credited  with  dragging  the  hated  ensign  through  the  muck  and 
mire  of  the  city  streets,  soiling  and  tearing  it  into  shreds.  All 
four  young  men  were  involved  in  what  we  now  construe  as  a 
most  rash,  but  not  criminal,  act  brought  about  by  the  excite- 
ment of  the  time.  Three  of  them  escaped,  but  Mumford  was 
the  scapegoat  that  bore  the  heavy  penalty  for  all. 

Three  days  after,  on  April  29th,  New  Orleans  capitulated 
to  Flag  Officer  Farragut.     Through  the  glittering  pageant  of 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 


the  military  occupation  of  the  city  that  followed,  one  resolve 
— that  of  the  death  of  Mumford — was  never  lost  sight  of  by 
the  invaders.  But  it  was  his  own  unguarded,  boastful  speech 
relative  to  the  flag  that  is  said  to  have  been  the  immediate 
cause  of  his  arrest.  He  was  at  once  confined  in  a  room  in  the 
northeastern  corner  of  the  Customhouse,  where  subsequently 
his  imprisonment  was  shared  by  two  of  our  veterans,  Capt. 
J.  W.  Gaines  and  Mr.  Howard  Zachary.  To  us  of  this  day,  it 
is  a  matter  of  surprise  that  after  the  commission  of  an  act 
which  could  not  fail  to  draw  down  upon  him  the  hostility  of 
the  entering  army,  he  should  have  remained  in  New  Orleans. 
Probably,  his  family  was  the  magnet  that  held  him. 

On  April  29th,  Gen.  Butler  now  being  in  possession  of  the 
city,  announced :  "I  find  the  city  under  dominion  of  a  mob. 
They  have  insulted  our  flag — torn  it  down  with  indignity.  This 
outrage  will  be  punished  in  such  manner  as  in  my  judgment 
will  caution  both  the  perpetrators  and  abettors  of  the  act,  so 
that  they  shall  fear  the  stripes,  if  they  do  not  reverence  the 
stars  of  our  banner." 

If  words  convey  purposes,  \Vm.  B.  Mumford  was  by  them 
prejudged.  By  the  finding  of  the  Military  Commission  con- 
vened by  Special  Order  No.  70,  June  5,  1862,  it  was  "ordered 
that  he  be  executed  on  Saturday,  June  7th,  between  the  hours 
of  8  a.  m.  and  12  m.,  under  the  direction  of  the  Provost  Mar- 
shal of  the  New  Orleans  District." 

Influential  persons  interceded  in  his  behalf,  and  it  is  said 
that  Mrs.  Butler  entreated  that  he  might  be  spared.  But  the 
Man  of  Infamous  Orders  was  inflexible  and  his  threat  of  pun- 
ishment was  carried  out. 

There  was  a  certain  dramatic  effect  conceived  by  Gen. 
Butler,  in  having  this  military  murder  of  his  take  place  from 
a  gibbet  projecting  from  the  peristyle  of  the  Mint  and  erected 
below  its  flag-staff.  There,  under  the  now  triumphant  folds 
of  the  symbol  of  Northern  authority  he  so  detested,  just  forty 
days  after  his  futile  attempt  to  destroy  it,  the  life  of  Wm.  B. 
Mumford  was  taken  from  him  in  the  presence  of  a  large  body 
of  the  Federal  soldiery.  Both  cavalry  and  infantry  were  placed 
around  the  inclosure  to  overawe  the  vast  crowd  of  sympathetic 
witnesses  to  his  martyrdom.     Governor  Moore  in  a  speech  at 


8 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

Opelousas  a  few  days  after  the  occurrence  says :  "Brought 
in  full  view  of  the  scaffold,  they  offered  him  life  on  the  condi- 
tion that  he  would  abjure  his  country  and  swear  allegiance  to 
the  foe.  He  spurned  the  offer.  Scorning  to  stain  his  soul  with 
such  foul  dishonor,  he  met  his  fate  courageously."  In  a  news- 
paper clipping  of  that  time  published  in  the  "War  of  the  Re- 
bellion," with  much  other  data  on  the  subject,  we  read:  "He 
died  as  a  patriot  should  die — with  great  coolness  and  self-pos- 
session. An  instant  before  he  passed  into  the  presence  of  his 
Maker  he  was  cool  in  his  demeanor  and  on  his  countenance 
could  be  found  no  trace  of  the  ordeal  he  was  passing  through." 
Delving  in  these  same  impartial  records  for  traces  of  one  whose 
name  seems  "writ  in  water,"  we  find  that  his  execution  was 
the  basis  of  official  correspondence  ordered  by  President  Davis, 
through  Randolph,  our  Secretary  of  War,  and  conducted  by 
Gen.  Lee  with  the  Federal  Generals,  Halleck  and  McLellan — 
all  of  which  resulted  so  unsatisfactorily  that  Robert  Ould, 
Agent  of  Exchange,  was  instructed  on  January  17,  1863,  by 
way  of  retaliation,  to  refuse  Federal  officers  release  on  parole. 
In  the  proclamation  issued  by  President  Davis,  in  which  he 
declares  Gen.  Butler  to  be  a  felon  and  an  outlaw,  one-half  of 
it  is  given  to  an  analysis  of  the  Mumford  execution. 

If  devotion  to  his  flag,  whether  as  civilian  or  soldier,  be 
the  test  of  a  citizen's  character,  then  surely  Mumford,  judged 
by  this  standard,  stands  high.  Through  history  the  one  who 
has  passed  such  a  test  has  ever  been  ranked  nobly  by 

"That  mysterious  after-time 
Which  circles  round  the  grave." 

Almost  a  parallel  case  .with  that  of  Mumford  was  the 
rending  from  its  staff  by  Col.  Ellsworth,  of  the  Confederate 
flag  that  waved  over  the  Marshall  House  at  Alexandria,  Vir- 
ginia, and  the  trailing  it  in  the  dust  of  the  stairway.  Jackson 
killed  Ellsworth  for  its  destruction  and  himself,  in  turn,  was 
shot  by  one  of  Ellsworth's  Zouaves.  Here  a  friendly  book 
tells  us  that  in  sympathetic  admiration  "a  monument  was  pro- 
posed to  the  hero  of  Alexandria  and  a  grateful  people  contri- 
buted towards  the  wants  of  his  bereaved  family." 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 


With  Mumford  it  was  an  instinctive  love  for  what  repre- 
sented the  sovereignty  of  the  South,  and  an  ardent  dislike  for 
the  emblem  of  Northern  invasion  that  incited  his  emotional 
act.  But  it  was  an  act  committed  in  a  Confederate  State,  of 
which  the  city  was  a  part,  not  yet  surrendered  to  the  Union 
of  which  she  had  declared  herself  "free  and  independent."  He 
died  on  Louisiana  soil  as  truly  a  martyr  to  his  love  for  the 
Confederate  flag  as  did  Jackson  who  was  shot  down  in  his 
own  home  in  Virginia.  The  one  before  the  city  was  occupied, 
tore  down  the  flag  usurping  that  of  his  choice;  the  other 
avenged  an  insult  to  the  Stars  and  Bars  that  floated  over  his 
own  roof.  Greater  love  cannot  be  shown  for  a  principle  than 
by  giving  one's  life  for  its  sake.  Both  men  gave  this  proof  but, 
of  the  two,  poor  Mumford's  was  the  harder  fate.  Jackson 
passed  in  storm,  but  quickly,  while  Mumford,  after  weary  days 
of  imprisonment,  met  a  felon's  death. 

It  is  a  matter  for  surprise  and  regret  that  the  first  martyr 
to  Butler's  regime,  whose  shameful  death  stirred  the  entire 
Southern  heart  to  anger,  should  be  .so  entirely  forgotten  by 
the  present.  What  token  of  remembrance  or  honor — save 
what  is  found  in  the  official  records  of  the  war  or  a  few  scant 
lines  in  the  telling  of  a  military  incident — has  ever  been  award- 
ed his  memory?  At  least,  we  know  where  he  sleeps.  Sixty 
paces  from  the  entrance  to  the  Firemen's  Cemetery  on  Me- 
tairie  Ridge,  he  lies  in  a  lonely,  neglected  grave,  in  the  top  row 
of  the  ghastly  "bovedas,"  or  ovens,  in  the  inclosing  left  wall. 
The  marble  slab  that  shuts  in  his  dust  bears  only  the  curt  in- 
scription : 

Mumford's  Grave 

— his  name  even  shorn  of  its  legitimate  initials ! 

Sam  Davis,  of  Tennessee,  died  as  a  spy  on  the  gallows, 
but  his  dual  monument — the  one  in  marble,  the  other  in  un- 
forgetting  hearts — effaces  its  shame  and  the  Daughters,  in 
honoring  the  gallant  young  patriot  with  their  prodigal  bounty 
of  bloom,  themselves  are  honored.  Jackson's  deed  was  in  the 
same  spirit  as  that  of  our  Mumford — he  is  not  forgotten  by 
his  fair  countrywomen  of  Virginia,  but  William  B.  Mumford — 
his  name,  with  many,  is  unknown  in  the  city  he  loved  and  in 


10 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

which  he  died,  and,  at  least,  the  bold  deed  which  cost  him  his 
life  is  held  but  a  vague  remembrance. 
Both  pitiful  and  strange,  is  it  not? 


Authorities  Consulted. 

Rightor's  Standard  History  of  New  Orleans. 
Fortier's  History  of  Louisiana. 
Dimitry's  Military  History  of  Louisiana. 
The  War  of  the  Rebellion,  and  others. 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE  11 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  MISSISSIPPI. 

"On  the  South's  imperial  river, 
There's  a  name  that  fadeth  never, 

'Tis  the  name  of  battle's  champion, 
'Tis  the  peerless  Arkansas; 

For  when  navies  all  are  rotten, 
When  the  art  of  war's  forgotten, 

She  shall  lead  the  fleet  of  story, 
Titled  queen  without  a  flaw." 

IN  THE  fall  of  1861,  the  Confederate  Government  ordered 
the  construction  of  two  gunboats  by  Captain  John  B. 
Shirley,  at  Memphis,  Tennessee.  Both  vessels  belonged 
to  that  formidable  class  of  naval  armament  known  as  Rams. 
One  of  them,  the  "Arkansas,"  was  destined  by  its  exploits  to 
gain  a  reputation  that  will  last  as  long  as  the  name  Confederacy 
itself. 

After  the  capture  of  Island  No.  10  by  General  Pope,  April 
7,  1862,  the  Tennessee — consort  of  the  Arkansas — was  de- 
stroyed to  prevent  its  falling  into  the  hands  of  the  Federals, 
who  were  then  making  ready  to  swoop  down  upon  Memphis. 
Ordered  by  the  Government,  the  Arkansas,  despite  the  un- 
finished condition  of  its  hull,  under  the  command  of  Captain 
Charles  H.  McBlair,  was  towed  down  the  great  river,  up  the 
Yazoo,  until  it  reached  the  only  Navy  Yard  in  Mississippi. 
This  primitive  Yard — upon  whose  site  now  screams  a  prosaic 
saw-mill — was  situated  upon  the  east  bank  of  the  Yazoo,  about 
the  southern  boundary  of  the  small  city  of  the  same  name. 
Soon  it  resounded  with  the  clang  of  forge  and  metal,  for 
brawny  workmen  wielding  heavy  hammers  made  their  mighty 
strokes  ring  out  in  unison  with  the  pulse  of  their  own  resolute, 
hopeful  hearts.  Lieutenant  Isaac  N.  Brown,  already  with  a 
distinguished  record  in  the  Confederate  States  Navy  to  his 
credit,  was  appointed  supervisory  workmaster  for  the  complet- 
ing and  arming  of  the  boat.  The  patriotic  planters  of  Yazoo  fur- 
nished laborers ;  forges  were  sent  in ;  the  hoisting  engine  of 
the  steamboat  "Capitol"  was  employed  to  drive  drills.  The  logs 
that  lined  the  inside  were  some  forty  or  fifty  feet  long,  hewed 


12 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

square  to  a  dimension  of  one  and  a  half  to  two  feet  thick.  Her 
engines  were  taken  from  the  Mississippi  steamboat  "Natchez." 
The  armor  that  plated  her  sides  in  rows  of  double  thickness 
was  of  ordinary  railroad  iron  collected  from  all  over  the  State. 
At  the  bow,  these  iron  plates  were  fashioned  into  a  sharp  point 
that  meant  murderous  work  when  driven  with  force  into  the 
ribs  of  an  enemy's  vessel.  One  hundred  feet  in  length,  with 
a  battery  of  ten  big  guns  manned  principally  by  detailed  navy 
men,  but  with  a  sprinkling  of  landsmen  in  her  crew  of  200, 
and  commanded  by  experienced  officers  from  the  old  United 
States  navy,  she  was,  indeed,  for  those  days,  a  formidable 
war  ship.  There  were  no  curving  lines  of  beauty  about  the 
Arkansas.  Although  the  child  of  Confederate  love  and  hope, 
it  was  an  ugly,  rough,  sinister-looking  craft  that  tumbled  like 
an  ungainly  leviathan  into  the  yellow  waters  of  the  Yazoo. 
The  Arkansas  was  born  of  the  need  of  the  hour  and  was  built 
not  for  grace,  but  for  power  and  destruction. 

From  the  fact  that  this  famous  gunboat  was  constructed 
of  timber  growing  in  the  Valley  forests  when  first  the  work 
began ;  completed  at  its  navy  yard  through  the  patriotic  zeal 
of  the  farmers  and  carpenters  of  the  county  and  of  laborers 
furnished  by  the  planters,  within  five  weeks  after  being 
brought  up  the  Yazoo;  with  several  pilots  and  part  of  her 
crew  taken  from  the  vicinity,  it  is  only  fair  to  call  the  historic 
ram  a  "Yazoo  production." 

It  was  due  to  Captain  Brown's  skill  and  intelligence  that 
he  was  put  in  command  of  the  Arkansas  for  its  brief  but  glo- 
rious career  of  twenty  days. 

In  the  summer  of  1862,  after  a  day  spent  in  organization 
and  drill,  Captain  Brown  started  the  Ram  on  her  race  of  fifty 
miles  for  beleagured  Vicksburg.  That  morning,  the  15th  of 
July,  the  sun  rose  in  smiles  and  blessed  her  perilous  cruise. 
Six  miles  from  the  mouth  of  the  Yazoo  river,  Ellet's  small 
fleet  consisting  of  the  iron-clad  "Carondelet,"  "Tyler"  and 
"Queen  of  the  West"  kept  steady  watch.  Instantly,  so  soon 
as  met,  like  a  shark  running  afoul  a  shoal  of  minnows,  the 
"Arkansas"  darted  forward,  steering  directly  for  the  "Tyler." 
A  running  fight  ensued.  After  chasing  both  the  "Tyler"  and 
"Queen  of  the  West"  into  the  Mississippi,  she  paid  special 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 13 

attention  to  the  "Carondelet."  A  shot  went  so  true  to  the 
vitals  of  the  Federal  boat  with  a  stolen  Southern  name  that 
she  soon  hauled  down  her  colors ;  a  few  more  brought  out 
white  flags  at  her  ports  and  shortly  after  the  "Carondelet" 
sank.  But  victory  was  not  without  loss  to  the  "Arkansas." 
Captain  Brown  was  knocked  senseless  for  a  time  by  a  ball 
passing  through  the  pilot  house.  Two  pilots  were  killed.  One 
was  Shacklett,  a  Yazoo  river  pilot  who,  as  they  were  carrying 
him  below,  had  the  courage  and  devotion  to  exclaim  with  his 
dying  breath :  "Keep  her  in  the  middle  of  the  river." 

Buoyed  and  borne  on  by  the  strong,  friendy  current  of  the 
Mississippi,  the  heroic  "Arkansas" — although  with  smoke- 
stack riddled  by  shot  and  shell  and  pumping  a  heavy  stream 
of  water — stubbornly  kept  on  her  way.  The  great  Federal 
fleet  composed  of  Farragut's  sea-fleet  and  Flag-officer  Davis' 
river-fleet,  like  a  forest  of  masts  and  smoke-stacks,  barred  her 
path.  The  "Arkansas"  stopped  not  to  ask  the  reason  "why," 
but  at  once  opened  on  the  "Hartford" — afterwards  the  Ad- 
miral's fateful  flagship  at  New  Orleans,  and  soon  all  her  guns 
were  in  action.  Now  began  the  real  race,  a  race  that  was  full 
of  danger,  a  race  through  shot  and  shell,  a  race  through  bomb 
and  mortar,  a  race  through  an  entire  fleet.  The  brave  vessel 
was  in  one  of  the  most  desperate  fights  any  one  ship  ever  sus- 
tained since  ships  were  made.  In  addition  to  the  fire  of  the 
fleet,  she  encountered  strange  rains,  and  hails  and  showers 
from  the  Federal  fortifications  that  lined  either  side  of  the 
river.  There  was  no  rest  for  the  "Arkansas."  A  target  for  a 
hundred  guns,  the  heavy  shot  of  the  enemy  pounded  her  ar- 
mored sides  like  sledge-hammers.  The  day  was  still  and  heavy 
smoke-clouds  hung  so  close  that  it  was  only  through  the  mo- 
mentary blaze  of  a  discharged  gun  that  aim  could  be  taken. 
But  never  did  the  musical  guns  of  Groningen  more  harmo- 
niously sing  their  fierce  ut,  re,  mi,  fa,  sol,  la  than  did  the 
guns  of  the  crippled  "Arkansas"  make  ready  and  joyous  re- 
sponse to  the  enemy  through  the  flashes  of  flame.  Nothing 
could  stop  her!  Onward  through  the  fire  of  transports  and 
vessels  of  war  belching  death,  she  boldly,  unflinchingly  fought 
her  way. 


14 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

Now,  through  the  smoke  and  above  the  din  of  shot  and 
shriek  of  shell,  was  heard  a  voice  crying  out  that  the  colors 
of  the  "Arkansas"  had  been  shot  away.  In  an  instant,  a  young 
hero,  Midshipman  Dabney  M.  Scales — with  a  courage  equal 
to  that  of  the  wild,  intrepid  Beggars  of  the  Sea — scrambled 
up  the  ladder  and  fearlessly  treading  the  terrible  path  of  death, 
swept  by  a  hurricane  of  shot  and  shell,  again  raised  the  Stars 
and  Bars  aloft.  Onwards,  the  irresistible  "Queen  of  the  Wa- 
ters" swept  her  way  victoriously — rushing  through  the  deadly 
hail  of  iron  hurled  by  two  fleets  of  about  forty  vessels  of  war 
and  emerging  shattered,  bleeding,  weakened  by  heavy  losses 
of  her  crew,  but  triumphant — to  anchor  safe  under  the  pro- 
tecting guns  of  Vicksburg. 

On  the  hills  above,  Generals  Van  Dorn  and  Breckinridge 
with  thousands  of  soldiers  eagerly  watched  the  brave  race.  All 
hearts  were  anxious  and  sympathetic,  but  the  hands  that 
longed  to  help  were  powerless  to  aid.  The  heroic  vessel 
plunged  through  the  waters  firing  in  every  direction,  never 
refusing  a  challenge  as  each  war  ship  in  turn  tried  to  sink  or 
disable  her.  It  was  as  though  the  bold  heart  of  the  Confed- 
eracy beat  under  her  iron  ribs  !  On  she  pressed,  unswerving 
in  the  path  to  her  goal,  until,  finally,  as  she  entered  her  fair 
haven  opposite  the  City  Hall,  with  Southern  colors  still  aloft, 
still  streaming  in  the  breeze,  still  gloriously  defiant  of  the 
mighty  men-of-war  filling  the  river,  a  burst  of  enthusiastic 
cheering  greeted  her.    It  was  an  ovation  to  a  conquering  hero! 

At  night,  Farragut's  sea-going  fleet  and  Davis'  iron-clads 
passed  down  the  river.  They  came  by  singly  and,  at  their 
coming,  the  "Arkansas" — sorely  crippled,  yet  ever  ready  for  a 
fight — dashed  out  and  gave  each  a  broadside  as  it  droppea 
past.  Admiral  Farragut,  deeply  mortified  at  the  success  of 
the  daring  rebel  ram  in  running  the  fiery  gauntlet  of  his  two 
fleets,  sent  a  last  spiteful  death-dealing  shot  as  his  flagship 
went  by  and  killed  and  wounded  many  of  her  crew.  A  few 
days  later,  her  old  enemy  "Queen  of  the  West,"  also  the  pow- 
erful iron-clad  "Essex"  under  Captain  D.  D.  Porter  tried  to 
ram  or  capture  her.  But  again  the  "Queen  of  the  Waters" 
was  triumphant.  Both  ships  were  not  only  beaten  off,  but 
disabled.      Captain    Porter,   "The    Boastful,"   found   the   rebel 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 15 

gunboat  more  than  a  match  for  his  big  "Essex,"  and  his  next 
despatch  to  Washington  must  have  been  less  rosy  than  usual. 
But  now  the  Arkansas,  though  lame  and  halt  from  her  fierce 
fight  and  with  a  crew  reduced  to  seventeen,  was  called  to  an- 
other field.  She  was  born  to  fight,  never  to  rest !  Here  came 
a  telegram  from  General  Breckenridge  in  Louisiana  to  General 
Van  Dorn  invoking  the  aid  of  her  guns,  and  forthwith  the 
Arkansas  was  sent — her  blacksmiths  making  music  with  their 
hammers  on  repairs  as  she  laboriously  steamed  down  the 
river. 

On  the  morning  of  the  5th  of  August,  the  attack  on  Baton 
Rouge  opened.  All  day  long  General  Breckinridge  listened 
eagerly  for  the  roar  of  the  guns  of  the  Arkansas,  but  he  was 
destined  never  to  hear  those  guns  again.  The  last  hour  of 
the  veteran  ram  had  been  tolled  by  the  battle-clock.  Born  in 
Mississippi,  she  was  destined  to  end  her  glorious  career  in 
Louisiana.  Five  miles  off,  already  within  hearing  of  the  artil- 
lery of  the  Confederates,  the  engineer  announced  that  her 
machinery  was  so  broken  it  could  not  be  repaired.  Alas  !  the 
old  engines  of  the  "Natchez"  were  no  longer  equal  to  the  work 
required.  The  heart  of  the  "Arkansas"  could  no  longer  beat. 
Sternly  resolved  that  the  foot  of  an  enemy  should  never  tread 
her  deck,  with  the  deepest  grief,  her  officers  fired  and  left  her. 
She  was  free  to  go  where  it  pleased  her — her  guns  all  shotted 
— her  colors  waving  in  the  breeze.  One  by  one,  those  guns 
as  the  flames  reached  them,  roared  out ;  and  so  the  last  race  of 
the  "Arkansas"  was  run,  not  only  without  dishonor,  but  with  a 
glory  that  will  long  be  remembered  on  the  shores  of  the  great 
river. 

"And  her  Banner  sparkled  prouder 
Till  the  fire  had  reached  her  powder; 
In  her  loudest  peal  of  thunder 

Went  the  Queen  of  Battle  down ; 

And  in  all  her  olden  manner, 
Flared  her  never-conquered  banner, 

Sinking  'neath  the  Southern  waters 
That  remember  her  renown." 


16  WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 


"MEMMINGER'S  CANARIES." 

To  the  Secretary  of  the  Confederate  Treasury,  Mr.  C.  G. 
Memminger,  is  accorded  the  honor  of,  being  the  first  official  to 
avail  himself  of  the  talents  of  his  countrywomen  in  the  service 
of  the  State.  In  view  of  the  fact  that  clerks  of  the  Note- 
Signing  Bureau  were  needed  in  the  formation  of  a  Govern- 
ment Battalion  for  the  defence  of  Richmond,  he  decided  upon 
the  employment  of  ladies  in  that  special  bureau.  There  were 
nearly  300  clerks  of  whom  more  than  half  were  ladies.  In 
1863,  this  division  was  removed  from  Richmond  to  Columbia. 
South  Carolina. 

A  simple  outfit — consisting  of  penholder  and  pen,  a  spring- 
clamp  and  a  blotter-pad — was  handed  to  the  new  employee 
and,  by  grace  of  her  oath  of  allegiance  to  the  young  Confed- 
eracy, she  was  henceforth  known  in  the  small  world  of  the 
Treasury  building  as  a  "Note-signer,"  or  a  "Bond-numberer." 
With  a  bundle  of  Treasury  notes,  eight  to  a  sheet,  flung  over 
her  arm,  she  then  sought  the  desk  allotted  her  among  those 
who  were,  from  9  a.  m.  to  3  p.  m.,  for  long  months  to  be  her 
daily  associates.  It  was  a  unique  world  of  toil,  for  the  toilers 
were  those  who,  once  tenderly  reared  in  refinement  and  luxury, 
were  now  forced  to  earn  their  daily  bread  at  a  salary  of  $1,000 
per  annum,  with  such  increase  as  might,  from  time  to  time,  be 
allowed  by  Congress.  No  one  was  allowed  to  be  a  mere  cipher 
filling  up  space,  for  the  Secretary  was  something  of  a  martinet 
and,  during  office  hours,  exacted  strict  attention  to  work. 

No  great  amount  of  brain  power  was  expended  in  signing 
one's  name  several  thousand  times  in  the  course  of  a  day;  but, 
at  first,  the  common  quality  of  paper  caused  many  pouts  and 
some  tears — a  sharp  pen  point  often  jagging  or  blotting  the 
note.  Eventually,  our  Richmond  mills  removed  the  difficulty 
by  their  success  in  turning  out  a  fair  quality  of  linen  paper  30 
smooth  of  surface  as  to  admit  of  rapid  writing  with  freedom 
from  blots  and,  consequently,  less  exasperation  of  nerves. 
Although  forced  to  substitute  lithographs  for  steel  engravings 
on  our  notes,  we  thought  they  presented  quite  a  handsome  ap- 
pearance, for  it  was  Southern  currency  and  our  faith  was  un- 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE  17 


bounded  that,  "Six  months  after  the  ratification  of  a  treaty  of 
peace,"  it  would  be  as  "good  as  gold." 

It  was  the  special  ambition  of  each  lady  to  record  her 
name  upon  that  fair  and  costly  note  known  as  the  $500.  It 
was  the  highest  denomination  issued  by  this  Government  and 
had  a  noble  beauty  unlike  all  others.  On  the  left  side  was  our 
flag  with  its  starry  cross  crowned  with  laurel;  on  the  right, 
great  "Stonewall  Jackson,"  as  the  guardian  of  its  honor,  faced 
it  with  uncovered  head.  Although  the  writing  of  the  signa- 
ture was  merely  a  mechanical  process,  the  fact  of  being  en- 
trusted with  the  signing  of  a  note  so  high  in  value  always  gave 
the  recipient  of  this  coveted  honor  much  prestige  in  the  note- 
signing  community.  As  the  notes  were  caught  fast  in  one 
corner  by  means  of  a  clamp,  signing  a  name  eight  times  on  a 
sheet  and  throwing  it  over  to  take  up  another  was  swift  work 
that  did  not  always  admit  of  thorough  drying.  There  was  ar* 
unwritten  law  to  the  effect — so  it  was  whispered — that  the 
penalty  for  carelessness  in  blotting  notes  was  redemption  of 
their  value  out  of  the  offender's  salary.  Shortly  after  a  certain 
lady's  promotion  to  the  $500  note,  to  her  unspeakable  horror, 
a  clerk  placed  upon  her  desk  several  sheets  condemned  for 
blotted  signatures,  all  requiring  duplication.  For  some  days, 
the  lady  avoided  the  manager's  eye  as  he  made  his  tour  ot 
the  room,  but  pay-day  passed  and  she  breathed  more  freely 
upon  finding  that  her  salary  was  intact  and  the  Government 
yet  had  need  for  her  pen. 

What  types  of  youthful  Southern  womanhood  and  digni- 
fied matronly  grace,  of  social  position  and  heroic  endeavor, 
were  brought  together  within  the  dingy  limits  of  that  old 
note-signer's  room  on  Main  Street — reached  only  by  a  narrow 
stairway !  The  girls  climbed  the  rickety  stairs,  light-hearted, 
because  filled  with  the  joy  of  youth — strengthened  for  the 
day's  work,  perchance,  by  a  savory  breakfast  of  toasted  corn- 
meal,  coffee  and  baked  sweet  potatoes.  We  had  not  yet 
reached  the  starvation  days  of  Richmond,  when  the  hungry 
rats  came  out  of  their  holes  and  were  fed  from  the  hand,  gen- 
tle and  playful  as  kittens,  and  there  was  murderous  talk  of 
turning  them  into  broilers  for  food.  "Why,"  it  was  asked, 
"should   Richmond   be   more   dainty  than   Vicksburg?"     The 


18 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

girls  of  that  period  were  irrepressible  and,  on  the  calendar, 
every  day  was  a  red  letter  day.  They  cried:  "Glorious  Le^ 
and  glorious  Jackson  keep  watch  and  ward,  therefore,  all  must 
and  will  end  well."  So  they  sang  their  rebel  songs  with  una- 
bated ardor,  put  white  and  red  roses  in  their  hair  for  defiance, 
and  kept  the  hearts  of  their  soldier  friends  aglow  with  their 
own  enthusiastic  patriotism. 

But  it  was  the  Confederate  matron  who  sorrowed  ever, 
for  she  bore  upon  her  heart  the  dual  burden  of  anxiety  at  home 
and  fear  for  the  beloved  ones  in  battle.  On  the  faces  of  many 
of  these  most  noble  women  were  reflected  the  "divine  lights 
and  shadows"  that  tell  of  the  soul's  growth  within  its  garment 
of  flesh.  So  much  of  their  time  in  the  gray  hours  of  morning 
was  spent  on  bended  knee,  or  in  reading  and  pondering  upon 
the  bright  promises  of  God !  There  was  the  source  of  that 
marvelous  power  which  made  their  courage  as  invincible  at 
home  as  that  of  the  veteran  on  the  field. 

After  the  lapse  of  years,  it  is  difficult  to  recall  many,  but 
a  few  names  will  give  some  idea  of  the  personnel  of  the  Bu- 
reau. Again  they  rise  and  flit,  like  eager  ghosts,  through  the 
shadows  of  the  past.  There  is  Miss  Darby,  allied  to  the 
Prestons  and  Hamptons  of  South  Carolina,  passing  many  a 
jest  in  quiet  undertones;  vivacious  Victoire  Blanchard  of  Lou- 
isiana, in  dainty  organdie  and  silken  wrap,  with  the  voice  of 
a  lark  in  her  fair  young  throat,  keeps  up  a  monologue  in  a 
charming  medley  of  French  and  English  ;  Miss  Stuart,  a  pale, 
serious  slip  of  a  girl  of  the  Virginia  house  of  that  name,  bends 
over  her  desk  intent  only  upon  preserving  the  fair  integrity  of 
her  name  upon  the  $500  note ;  the  ladies  Garnett,  Bartow  and 
Norton,  Huger  and  DeSaussure,  of  Cavalier  and  Huguenot 
ancestry,  are  placidly  killing  time  by  diligent  work.  Seated 
near  is  Mme.  Proctor,  the  majestic  sister  of  General  Beaure- 
gard. What  a  picture  she  makes  with  her  abundant  snowy 
hair  dressed  a  la  marquise,  clad  in  silk,  in  winter  wrapped  in 
velvet,  and  wearing  the  costliest  lace.  She  is  numbering 
bonds,  but,  with  pen  poised  for  a  moment  in  air.  in  her  erect 
regal  dignity,  looks  not  unlike  Marie  Antoinette  when  about 
to  affix  her  signature  to  some  royal  document  of  grace.  In 
those  vanished  days,  as  a  queen,  she  daily  gave  audience  at 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 19 

her  desk.  The  younger  ladies,  with  one  accord  when  through 
with  their  personal  allotment  of  notes,  were  ever  ready  to 
assist  this  superb  old  lady  with  her  bonds. 

Many  of  the  note-signers  of  that  year,  1863,  dressed  in 
most  unusual  fashion — a  creation  of  hard  times.  Handsome 
clothes,  that  seemed  sadly  out  of  place,  were  not  infrequently 
in  that  old  room.  But,  while  homespun  was  most  durable,  it 
could  rarely  be  got.;  and  though  a  simple  calico  dress  was 
cheap  at  $30,  it  was  cheaper  still  to  wear  the  costly  garments 
already  paid  for. 

One  day,  in  the  yard,  a  pot  of  machine  oil  coming  in  con- 
tact with  some  burning  waste,  caught  on  fire.  It  seemed  as 
if  a  conflagration  was  imminent.  The  smoke  ascended  and  bil- 
lowed through  the  room,  causing  a  sad  flutter  and  fright  among 
"Memminger's  Canary  birds,"  as  the  ladies  were  facetiously 
called.  They  swayed  from  side  to  side  peering  through  the 
dense  clouds  of  smoke  at  the  open  windows,  seeking  an  avenue 
of  escape.  Finally,  moved  by  a  common  impulse,  they  rushed 
pell-mell  down  the  stairs  into  the  open  street,  some  with  hair 
flying  in  the  wind,  without  bonnets,  hats  or  cloaks — all  forgot- 
ten in  their  mad  panic.  The  worst  that  came  of  it  was  a  wag- 
gish paragraph  in  the  next  day's  paper. 

There  was  one  order  of  the  Bureau  officials,  so  consider- 
ate as  to  deserve  mention.  Whenever  the  day  ended  in  rain, 
an  omnibus  was  directed  to  stop  at  the  door  and  convey  to 
their  respective  homes,  free  of  charge,  such  ladies  as  lived  at 
a  distance.  This  humane  bit  of  courtesy,  coupled  with  the 
rather  humorous  resolution  passed  by  Congress  declaring  that 
in  calling  for  the  ages  of  clerks  in  various  departments,  it  was 
not  understood  to  include  that  of  the  ladies,  certainly,  in  the 
eyes  of  the  ladies  themselves,  distinguished  our  Southern 
Government  as  one  rarely  chivalrous. 

The  spring-time  of  1864  with  its  lustrous  mocking  sun- 
shine passed,  and  never  were  the  Solfaterre  roses  sweeter, 
nor  the  oleanders  whiter  in  the  gardens  of  Columbia,  nor  the 
Congaree  Falls  more  musical  as  we  listened  to  their  play  in 
the  midnight  silence,  and  dreamed  of  Lee  and  victory.  Then 
the  long,  slow  summer  came  and  went,  and  the  dreary  autumn 


20 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

followed.  With  its  going',  we  began  to  live  on  anticipated 
horrors.  The  new  year  of  1865  dawned  sadly  enough.  There 
was  much  talk  of  Sherman's  advance,  and  an  effort  was  made 
to  draw  troops  from  Lee  for  the  defence  of  Columbia ;  but  in 
vain,  every  soldier  was  needed  for  Richmond.  After  Sher- 
man's burning  of  Columbia — involving  the  destruction  of  the 
money-printing  machine  and  of  a  large  amount  of  Treasury 
notes — there  was  some  expectation  at  the  close  of  February,  of 
removing  the  employes  to  Lynchburg,  Virginia,  and  of  start- 
ing anew  the  manufacture  of  the  notes.  But  chaos  had  come 
again  and  this  scheme  was  never  carried  through.  The  col- 
lapse of  all  things  dear  to  the  Confederate  heart  was  close  at 
hand.  Appomattox  followed  swiftly  upon  the  evacuation  of 
the  Capital,  and  then — "the  Confederacy  took  its  place  in  the 
graveyard  of  nations." 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE  21 


JUDAH  P.  BENJAMIN. 

ON  August  6,  1811,  in  an  isle  of  the  Danish  West  Indies 
called  St.  Thomas,  Judah  P.  Benjamin  was  born  of 
well  educated  Hebrew-English  parentage.  This  beau- 
tiful isle,  as  in  sunshine  and  greenery  it  rests  in  the  arms  of 
old  ocean,  might  well  be  called  a  Darling  of  the  Deep.  Cyclone 
and  hurricane  sometimes  come  to  play  rough  games  among  its 
lofty  hills ;  but  usually  no  sky  is  softer  than  the  blue  dome 
above;  no  sunlight  more  bounteous  in  its  floods  of  gold;  no 
breezes  more  odorous  than  those  which  come  from  the  salt 
sea  perfumed  by  the  richness  of  tropic  bloom.  And  the  cradle- 
song  of  the  young  Israelite  born  in  the  midst  of  this  natural 
loveliness  was  the  rustle  of  mighty  groves'  of  palms,  mingled 
with  the  unceasing  surge  of  the  wild  Caribbean  Sea. 

With  such  an  environment  of  storm  and  grace,  was  it 
strange  that  our  nursling  of  the  tropics  should,  through  all 
the  years  of  life,  have  felt  their  quickening  influence  in  heart 
and  brain? 

It  is  a  coincidence  that  out  of  the  West  Indies  should  have 
come,  from  the  twin-sister  islets  of  St.  Croix  and  St.  Thomas, 
two  of  her  greatest  sons  to  unite  their  names  and  fortunes  with 
the  mighty  Republic  of  the  West.  Alexander  Hamilton  came 
in  an  epoch  of  seething  storm  and  revolution  to  be  the  trusted 
friend  of  Washington  and  to  sit  in  her  councils  of  State.  Later, 
came  Judah  P.  Benjamin  to  make  himself  ready  for  the  ser- 
vices of  a  younger  nation  that  the  prophetic  soul  of  Hamilton 
already  saw  dimly  shaped  in  the  future. 

In  1818,  the  green  hills  of  St.  Thomas  sloped  below  the 
horizon  and  the  Southern  Cross  faded  from  view  as — his  for- 
tunes at  a  low  ebb — Benjamin  pere,  with  wife  and  children, 
left  forever  behind  the  sunny  little  island  to  seek  a  home  of 
larger  possibilities  in  the  United  States.  Landing  in  Charles- 
ton, South  Carolina,  he.  resolved  to  secure  for  his  young  tribe 
that  liberal,  lasting  wealth  of  which  adversity  could  not  rob 
them.  The  children  of  Benjamin  were  at  once  sent  to  a 
popular  academy.  Here  Judah  proved  so  diligent  and  aspir- 
ing a  student  that  at  the  age  of  fourteen  he  entered  Yale.  The 


22 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

soul  of  the  ambitious  boy  must  have  grown  dark  when,  for 
lack  of  funds  at  the  end  of  his  second  year  he  was  compelled  to 
discontinue  his  collegiate  course  without  gaining  his  coveted 
degree.  Early  realizing  that  he  was  no  petted  favorite  of  for- 
tune, but  that  the  glittering  baubles  of  success  and  reputa- 
tion were  to  be  forced  by  his  own  unaided  strength  from  her 
closed,  unwilling  hand,  with  the  resolute  patience  of  his  race 
he  at  once  faced  the  struggle. 

In  1828,  destiny  drew  the  friendless  boy  to  New  Orleans. 
Here  we  find  him  in  the  office  of  a  notary  delving  as  clerk,  but, 
meanwhile,  scant  as  was  his  leisure,  studying  law  and,  the 
better  to  understand  the  complicated  jurisprudence  of  Louisi- 
ana, mastering  the  French  and  Spanish  languages. 

At  twenty-one,  on  December  16,  1832,  he  was  admitted  to 
the  bar,  and  so  encouraging  was  his  future  that,  in  the  spring 
of  the  following  year,  with  the  confidence  of  youth  in  himself 
and  in  his  own  bright  star,  he  led  to  the  altar  Miss  Natalie  St. 
Martin — a  beautiful  Creole  girl  of  New  Orleans.  Upon  her 
and  the  daughter  Ninette,  who  came  to  bless  their  union,  he 
lavished  without  stint  all  the  wealth  of  his  affections  and 
purse.  As  he  was  now  a  man  of  family,  he  also  became  one  of 
affairs.  He  spent  much  time  on  his  plantation  of  Bellechasse, 
deeply  interested  in  the  chemistry  of  sugar,  and  gave  his  leisure 
to  writing  articles  both  practical  and  entertaining  for  maga- 
zines. Such  work  was  delightful  recreation  for  one  who  loved 
the  humanities  and  was  accomplished  without  neglect  of  Chitty 
and  Blackstone.  But  while  engaged  in  work  so  congenial  the 
failure  of  a  friend,  for  whom  he  had  endorsed  notes  for  a  large 
amount,  so  crippled  his  fortune  that  he  resolutely  closed  his 
ears  to  the  enticements  of  literature,  and  turned  with  renewed 
ardor  to  the  practice  of  his  profession.  Henceforth,  though 
interested  like  a  good  citizen  in  all  that  made  for  the  public 
welfare,  the  world  knew  him  best  as  the  silvery-tongued,  elo- 
quent orator,  and  famous,  astute  lawyer. 

Elected  in  1842,  to  the  legislature  of  Louisiana,  ten  years 
later  he  was  sent  to  the  Senate  of  the  L'nited  States.  In  that 
great  body  of  statesmen  he  was  peer  of  the  highest.  A  disci- 
plee  of  Calhoun,  he  held  to  state  sovereignty  in  his  brilliant 
speeches  upon  noted  questions  involving  the  two  great  issues 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 23 

of  the  day — Centralization  of  Government  and  State  Rights. 
Upon  the  secession  of  his  adopted  State,  with  warm  enthusi- 
asm of  feeling  and  in  far-reaching  musical  tones,  he  expressed 
his  conviction  that  the  "State  of  Louisiana  had  judged  and 
acted  wisely  in  this  crisis  of  her  destiny."  His  farewell  ad- 
dress to  his  colleagues  of  the  Senate,  in  its  high-hearted,  im- 
passioned patriotism  was  declared  by  Sir  Geo.  C.  Lewis — a 
cool-headed,  discriminating  Englishman  present  at  its  delivery 
— to  "be  better  than  what  D'Israeli  could  have  done." 

At  Montgomery,  in  the  formation  of  a  provisional  Govern- 
ment for  the  young  Confederacy,  he  was  placed  in  the  Cabinet 
as  Attorney  General — an  office  for  which  his  great  legal  abil- 
ities supremely  fitted  him.  In  Richmond,  upon  re-organization 
of  Government  on  a  constitutional  basis,  he  was  made  Secre- 
tary of  War.  With  its  stern,  dry  complexity  of  duties  he  was 
not  familiar,  as  several  disastrous  events  soon  proved.  Not 
relishing  the  caustic  criticisms  of  the  public  upon  his  admin- 
istration of  the  War  Department,  he  resigned  his  portfolio; 
but  in  February,  1862,  President  Davis  who  delighted  in  hon- 
oring him,  invited  him  to  take  a  seat  in  the  Cabinet  as  Secre- 
tary of  State — which  he  retained  to  the  end  of  the  Confederate 
Government.  To  him,  both  by  training  and  temperament, 
diplomacy  was  congenial.  True,  he  failed  in  his  unwearied 
efforts  to  secure  recognition  for  our  young  nation  by  the  great 
European  Powers ;  but  we  may  safely  assume  it  was  because 
the  Star  of  Empire  shone  not  upon  the  cradle  of  the  Southern 
Confederacy.  When  the  swords  of  great  Lee,  Stonewall  Jack- 
son and  Stuart  could  not  achieve  our  independence,  surely 
Benjamin  may  be  pardoned  that  he  did  not  gain  our  admission 
into  the  family  of  nations. 

When  Richmond  fell,  Benjamin,  true  to  his  personal  friend 
the  President,  with  the  other  Cabinet  officers,  accompanied 
him  to  Danville.  All  the  long,  dreary  way  he  was  the  life  of 
the  party.  When  the  President  went  southwards  he  was 
still  at  his  side ;  but,  on  arriving  at  Washington,  Ga.,  find- 
ing that  further  resistance  was  reduced  to  "save  himself  who 
can,"  he  assumed  a  disguise  and  made  his  way  to  the  Florida 
coast.    Again,  after  many  hardships,,  a 


24 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

"Forlorn  and  shipwrecked  mariner." 
life  threw  him  upon  St.  Thomas — the  isle  of  his  birth.  Thence, 
once  more  he  set  out  to  fight  the  battle  of  life  in  a  foreign  land 
— this  time,  he  was  middle-aged,  a  man  of  fifty-five.  Landing 
in  Liverpool,  he  hastened  to  London  and  took  up  the  study  of 
English  law.  In  June,  1866,  a  year  after  planting  foot  on  the 
soil  of  Great  Britain,  he  was  admitted  to  the  English  courts 
as  barrister  at  law.  Six  years  passed,  and  in  1872,  he  became 
Queen's  Counselor  and  presently  was  so  famous  as  to  appear 
solely  before  the  House  of  Lords  and  Privy  Council. 

A  portrait  of  him  in  his  Counselor's  wig — his  dark,  intel- 
lectual Semitic  face  framed  in  stiff  rows  of  white  woolen  curls 
— clearly  shows  in  its  triumphant  smile  the  indomitable  heart 
and  persevering  genius  of  his  great  race.  In  his  Hebrew 
lexicon  there  was  no  such  word  as  fail.  Overthrown  on  one 
plane,  he  never  lost  heart,  but  was  ready  cheerily  to  challenge 
Fate  to  another  wrestle — ever  another,  and  again  so  long  as 
life  lasted ! 

In  the  early  spring  of  1883,  failing  health  admonished  him 
to  lead  a  less  strenuous  life,  and  he  resolved  to  give  up  his 
magnificent  practice  which  now  ensured  him  a  fortune  of 
18,000  pounds  in  English  money — the  third  he  had  made. 
Before  his  final  retirement  to  Paris,  leading  members  of  the 
English  bar  bestowed  upon  him  a  most  unusual  honor.  De- 
siring to  take  a  collective  farewell  and  to  testify  their  high 
sense  of  the  honor  and  integrity  of  his  professional  career,  and 
of  their  desire  for  a  continuance  of  their  relations  of  personal 
friendship  they  tendered  him  a  grand  complimentary  banquet 
June,  1883,  in  tne  Hall  of  the  Inner  Temple.  Sir  Henry  James 
on  this  occasion,  in  allusion  to  his  forensic  ability,  voiced  the 
recognition  of  all  present  when  he  asked  :  "Who  is  the  man, 
save  this  one,  of  whom  it  can  be  said  that  he  held  conspicuous 
leadership  at  the  bar  of  two  countries?" 

He  did  not  live  long  to  enjoy  his  honors,  for  the  seeds  of 
death  were  already  planted  in  his  frame.  With  the  well- 
merited  plaudits  of  all  England  ringing  in  his  ears,  he  crossed 
the  Channel  for  the  last  time.  A  Hebrew,  he  never  obtruded, 
nor  endeavored  to  conceal  the  birth  of  which  he  was  proud. 
He  might  well  say  that  "the  world  was  his  home."    A  man  of 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 25 

two  nationalities — British  and  Confederate — he  passed  the 
short  remainder  of  his  days  chiefly  in  Paris,  in  the  beautiful 
home  he  had  built  for  his  wife  and  daughter  in  the  Avenue 
d'Jena.  Here,  he  died  May  6,  1884.  He  now  sleeps  in  the 
famed  Cemetery  of  Pere  la  Chaise. 

*         if.         *         * 

And  now  by  way  of  epilogue,  let  us  take  up  a  most  inter- 
esting question. 

Is  it  not  singular  to  find  that  this  great  man — who  in  a 
momentous  epoch  of  the  national  history  cast  his  fortune  with 
the  South,  when  doubtless  he  could  have  secured  preferment 
at  the  North — should  be  so  misjudged  and  accused  by  men  of 
the  present  day?  If,  as  has  been  alleged,  he  carried  with  him 
the  great  seal,  he  but  took  his  own  property;  for  unless  sur- 
rendered to  the  victor,  such  it  became  with  the  collapse  of  the 
government.  He  thus  saved  it  from  desecration ;  and  if  he 
retained  it  during  life  there  was  then  no  organization  which 
could  receive  this,  no  doubt  the  most  sacred  of  his  treasures ; 
and  even  if  there  had  been,  he  was  under  no  obligation  to  part 
with  it  until  he  chose.  If,  as  has  been  asserted,  he  donated 
it  to  British  keeping,  he  but  put  it  into  the  care  of  the  world's 
most  powerful  and  most  reverent  custodian.  And  after  all, 
is  it  not  fitting  that  the  longest-lived  of  the  English  nations 
should  guard  this  relic  of  the  shortest-lived? — that  the  symbol 
of  our  glorious  quadrennium  should  abide  among  the  symbols 
of  a  millenium,  and  that  the  mighty  mother  of  nations  should 
possess  this  memorial  of  the  noblest  of  her  daughters? 

If  Benjamin  left  the  South  in  the  day  of  her  overthrow, 
he  did  no  more  than  a  score  of  her  generals  did,  and  no  more 
than  Davis  was  trying  to  do.  Glance  at  the  prospect  before 
him  as  he  surveyed  the  future  with  the  President  at  Wash- 
ington. The  Confederacy  was  dead.  The  Chief  Executive 
and  his  official  family  were  fugitives.  If  captured,  they  could 
look  for  nothing  less  than  imprisonment — a  merciless  ven- 
geance, possibly  the  hangman's  cord  from  the  hands  of  a  party 
at  the  North,  drunken  and  crazed  with  power  and  flushed  with 
conquest  over  their  sister-section.  In  addition  to  this  sinister 
prospect,  he  knew  that  all  the  resources  and  power  of  the 
Confederacy  had  perished  in  its  death  struggle.     What  was 


26 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

there  for  him  in  Louisiana,  what  could  he  do  to  aid  or  comfort 
her  in  her  vast  humiliation?  Nothing!  With  the  vision  of  a 
seer,  he  must  have  seen  the  destiny  that  was  to  be  hers — the 
judiciary  of  which  she  was  once  so  proud  subjected  to  the  rule 
of  the  sword,  even  judges  holding  their  place  by  sufferance. 
The  dearest  part  of  a  man's  country  is  ever  said  to  be  his  own 
family  and  fireside.  Benjamin's  household  gods  yet  remained 
and  his  allegiance  as  husband  and  father  was  due  to  them. 

Look  at  the  long  list  shining  with  the  names  of  other 
eminent  Confederates  who,  after  the  surrender,  in  that  first 
dark  hour  of  collapse  and  a  noble  despair  sought  other  lands 
in  which  to  hide  the  agony  of  their  hearts,  in  which  to  live. 
or,  at  least,  to  breathe  until  health  and  strength  came  back  to 
their  sick  souls. 

Let  us  single  out  a  few. 

See  Robert  Toombs — than  whom  never  breathed  a  more 
rampant,  defiant,  devoted  Southerner — yet  he,  chafing  at  defeat 
like  an  entrapped  lion,  remained  abroad  until  1867. 

John  Taylor  Wood — the  brother-in-law  of  the  President 
and  his  aide-de-camp — when  all  was  over,  escaped  to  Cuba  and 
subsequently  lived  in  Halifax,  Nova  Scotia. 

General  Early,  after  riding  like  a  paladin  long  and  hard 
to  attach  himself  to  a  Confederate  force  and  continue  the  war. 
gave  up  the  fruitless  chase  and  became  an  exile  for  a  time  in 
Mexico  and  Canada. 

General  John  B.  Magruder — called  "Prince  John"  on  ac- 
count of  his  lordly  air — sought  relief  for  his  exasperation  by- 
enlisting  in  the  army  of  Maximilian  and  remained  with  him 
until  his  downfall. 

Our  own  loved  Henry  Watkins  Allen,  Governor  of  Lou- 
isiana and  gallant  officer  in  the  Southern  army — unable  to 
stand  the  changed  conditions  brought  on  by  the  war— took 
himself  with  his  broken  heart  to  die  in  Mexico. 

But  why  add  to  the  list?  Against  not  one  of  these  heroic 
souls  of  the  Confederacy  has  envy  or  detraction  ever  raised 
slanderous  voice  impugning  their  patriotism.  Why  then 
against  Judah  P.  Benjamin?  Would  it  not  be  ungenerous  to 
ascribe  this  petty  resentment  of  which  he  is  the  victim  to  the 
fact  that  he  was  a  Jew  and,  therefore,  heir  to  all  the  obloquy 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 27 

that  Christian  tongues  have  too  often  meted  out  to  .his  race. 
But,  rather  does  it  not  remind  one  of  the  antique  Cato's  criti- 
cism upon  the  breach  between  Caesar  and  Pompey?  "The 
great  misery  has  not  come  from  their  being  enemies,  but  from 
their  having  been  friends."  The  South,  resentful  that  another 
should  claim  the  service  and  prestige  of  one  whom  she  con- 
sidered her  own  son,  questions  his  purity  of  motive.  A  weak- 
ness of  humanity!  When  a  bond  of  union  has  once  existed, 
we  are  apt  to  take  ill  even  the  appearance  of  a  transfer  oi 
affection. 

Instead  of  looking  coldly  upon  one  who  was  ever  true  to 
his  brethren  of  the  Confederacy,  rather  should  we  hold  in 
highest  esteem  this  official  of  our  short-lived  Government  who 
in  a  strange  land  won  honor  and  dignities  so  notable.  Those 
honors,  by  reflection,  are  ours.  Though  the  Atlantic  rolled 
between  the  country  of  his  early  and  that  of  his  later  life,  yet 
will  the  name  and  fame  of  Judah  P.  Benjamin — three  times 
chosen  to  a  seat  in  her  Cabinet — ever  be  proudly  and  indis- 
solubly  associated  with  that  of  the  Southern  Confederacy. 


28  WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 


THE  LOUISIANA. 

IN  April,  1862,  when  the  bruit  of  a  naval  attack  upon  New 
Orleans  by  way  of  the  Gulf,  first  began  to  fill  the  air,  it 
created  little  more  apprehension  than  an  incredulous 
shrug  of  the  shoulders,  or  a  laugh  that  one  could  be  so  silly  as 
to  believe  the  canard.  Did  not  Secretary  Mallory  believe  that 
the  invasion  would  come  from  above  the  city,  not  below  the 
forts?  Surely,  he  must  know  better  than  these  idle  rumor- 
makers  !  Serenely,  therefore,  in  the  afternoon  after  closing 
his  store,  the  merchant  would  stroll  to  the  foot  of  Canal  street 
to  enjoy  the  fresh  breeze,  and  while  watching  the  swollen 
river — its  muddy  waters  creeping  stealthily  but  steadily,  night 
and  day,  to  the  top  of  the  levee — would  speculate  with  his 
friends  upon  the  probable  height  of  the  June  rise,  when  the 
Missouri  would  empty  upon  its  current  vast  floods  of  thawed 
snow  and  ice.  Crevasses  that  endangered  the  orange  orchards 
and  fields  of  growing  sweet  cane  troubled  his  thrifty  mind  far 
more  than  D.  G.  Farragut,  "Flag-officer  western  blockading 
squadron." 

Though  the  times  were  full  of  war,  the  Crescent  harbor 
presented  a  scene  of  prosperity  well-pleasing  to  the  eye  of 
planter  and  factor.  A  number  of  foreign  steamers  stood  in, 
the  harbor  laden  with  heavy  cargoes  of  cotton  for  their  return 
trip  across  the  Atlantic.  Around  others  at  the  wharves  was 
the  cheery  hum  of  contented  labor.  The  red-shirted  steve- 
dores, with  their  iron  hooks  were  toiling  and  tugging,  to  the 
measured  rhythm  of  an  old  minstrel  melody,  at  the  hundreds 
of  bales  that  crowded  the  levee  to  get  them  aboard  before 
night-fall.  Up  and  down  the  sheds  and  over  the  wharves — 
as  though  a  flock  of  sheep  had  passed  through  and  paid  toll 
with  their  wool — were  great  bunches  and  shreds  of  the  fleecy 
staple,  and  everywhere  the  white  lint  floated  in  the  pleasant 
April  air. 

Out  in  the  harbor,  too,  was  a  staunch  little  fleet  of  thirteen 
vessels,  bearing  among  others  such  martial  names  as  the 
Warrior,  Defiance,  Resolute  and  the  Stonewall  Jackson.  Some 
of  these  were  "converted  vessels" — that  is.  river  steamers  made 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 29 

shot-proof  with  cotton  bulkheads  and  provided  with  iron 
prows  to  act  as  rams,  and  among  these  were  a  few  tug-boats 
for  pushing  fire-rafts  on  the  enemy,  should  an  engagement  ever 
take  place.  Yet  on  her  "ways"  at  the  ship-yard  in  the  Jeffer- 
son suburb  was  the  naval  monster,  Mississippi — since  said  by 
two  navies  to  have  been  the  most  formidable  war  vessel  ever 
built.  Although  unfinished,  she  was  fast  nearing  completion 
and  it  was  expected  that  she  would  rival,  or  out-do,  the  dash- 
ing exploits  of  the  Virginia  in  Hampton  Roads.  The  Manas- 
sas, glorious  name  but  ill  of  prophecy,  was  lying  above  Fort 
Jackson  eager  to  try  conclusions  with  Farragut's  fleet,  should 
the  Admiral  be  so  daring  as  to  extend  a  challenge.  But  above 
all,  the  heart  of  the  proud  city  placed  its  trust  in  the  LOUISI- 
ANA. Surely,  that  was  a  name  to  be  relied  upon  as  a  sponsor 
for  the  protection  of  New  Orleans !  This  formidable  iron- 
clad was  not  much  of  a  trim,  nautical  craft  to  please  the  eye, 
but  it  was  thought  to  be  a  fearful  menace  to  the  insolent  ship 
that  might  brave  its  guns. 

Far  down  the  river — thirty  miles  from  its  mouth  on  the 
western  bank — was  Fort  Jackson,  guardian  of  the  Passes  and 
the  first  outpost  of  defence.  Named  in  honor  of  the  Hero  of 
New  Orleans,  it  bristled  with  guns  and  was  garrisoned  by  a 
goodly  complement  of  soldiers.  A  few  hundred  yards  above 
on  the  eastern  bank,  the  older  fort,  St.  Philip,  well  gunned  and 
manned,  stood  sentinel,  and  more  securely  to  obstruct  the 
river  against  possible  invasion  of  New  Orleans,  was  a  barrier 
of  schooners  lashed  amidships  and  anchored  across  the  stream 
between  the  forts. 

So,  upon  this  fatal  24th  of  April,  1862,  New  Orleans, 
cradled  in  war,  was  not  to  be  scared.  Trusting  in  the  strength 
and  loyalty  of  her  forts  and  in  the  might  of  her  steam  rams — 
two  bearing  as  talismans  against  shot  and  shell  the  names  of 
Gulf  States,  and  one  with  the  name  of  a  Northern  rout — she 
believed  herself  invincible.  Off  in  the  Gulf,  an  invasion  that 
threatened  might  seem  alarming,  but  in  the  city  no  one  was 
alarmed.  The  laugh,  the  song  and  the  dance  went  merrily  on 
with  the  gilded  youth  on  General  Lovell's  staff  and  the  dark- 
eyed  girls  of  Creoledom.  In  the  gardens,  the  red  roses  and 
scarlet  lilies  bloomed  in  the  spring  sunlight  with  ominous  sig- 


30 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

nificance  of  color,  but  the  Queen  City  of  the  South — trusting 
in  her  defences  on  river  and  land — serenely  pursued  the  even 
tenor  of  her  way. 

The  Louisiana  was  simply  a  huge  vessel  built  upon  a  dry 
dock.  In  appearance,  to  one  not  versed  in  naval  architecture — 
as  its  unwieldy  bulk  lay  heavily  upon  the  water — it  was  not 
unlike  the  sloping  roof  of  a  house  with  ridge  cut  off  by  a  broad 
open  inclosure  that,  in  turn,  was  surrounded  by  a  parapet. 
Through  this  inclosure,  like  a  curious  swarthy  giant  looking 
out  upon  the  world,  loomed  its  smoke-stack.  It  was  propelled 
by  four  engines  and  was  to  have  been  mounted  by  sixteen 
guns  and  carry  a  crew  of  two  hundred  men. 

General  Duncan,  commander  of  the  two  forts,  harassed 
by  the  fire  of  Commodore  Porter's  mortar-boats,  called  upon 
Commodore  Mitchell  of  the  naval  forces  at  New  Orleans  for 
the  services  of  the  Louisiana.  Yet  incomplete,  unwillingly, 
she  was  ordered  down.  With  machinists  and  mechanics  at 
work  on  her  propellers,  on  the  20th  of  April,  under  command 
of  Captain  Charles  F.  Mcintosh,  she  was  towed  down  the 
river — as  brave  men  believed — to  be  the  guardian  angel  of 
the  river  defence.  Half  a  mile  above  St.  Philip  she  was 
moored  to  the  left  bank.  On  the  22nd,  as  the  bombardment 
increased  in  severity,  General  Duncan  requested  Commodore 
Mitchell  to  move  the  Louisiana  farther  down  the  river  so  that 
she  might  drive  the  mortar-schooners  off.  The  Commodore 
declined,  for  the  reason  that  the  Louisiana's  machinery  was 
not  yet  in  working  order ;  that  the  engineers  hoped  to  have 
it  in  a  day  or  two ;  that  its  top  was  unprotected,  and  if  a  shell 
dropped  on  it,  it  would  pass  through  the  bottom  and  inevitably 
sink  the  ship,  etc.,  etc.  It  was  the  same  old  story  so  often 
told  of  our  gun-boats — a  state  of  unpreparedness  when  occa- 
sion demanded  their  services.  General  Duncan,  naturally  be- 
lieving that  the  Louisiana  was  built  for  use  and  should  take 
some  risks,  felt  aggrieved  at  the  Commodore's  decision — al- 
though in  its  propriety  he  was  supported  by  all  his  officers — 
and  unfortunately,  from  this  time,  all  cordiality  between  the 
forts  and  fleet  ceased  to  exist. 

At  3:30  a.  m.,  on  April  24th,  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  the 
wild  uproar  on  river  and  land,  in  the  darkness  of  the  night, 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 31 

fell  the  silence  of  the  desert.  The  mortars  were  mute ;  the 
forts  stopped  their  fire,  and  the  only  sound  that  broke  the  still- 
ness was  the  rush  of  the  Mississippi,  as  the  mighty  current 
of  its  yellow  flood  went  swirling  in  the  pitchy  darkness  to  its 
watery  bourne  in  the  Gulf.  Inside  Fort  Jackson,  just  as  long- 
ingly as  the  besieged  Antwerpers  in  1585  watched  for  Gian- 
belli's  "hell-burners,"  or  fireships,  that  were  to  destroy  the 
bridge  of  Farnese  across  the  Scheldt,  so  did  Duncan  and  the 
brave  St.  Mary's  Cannoneers  watch  throughout  that  woeful, 
memorable  night,  counting  the  hours  in  hopeless  despair  of 
aid  from  the  fire-barges  at  New  Orleans.  Through  some  one's 
blunder,  the  fire-ships,  that  would  have  carried  dismay  and 
destruction  into  the  enemy's  fleet,  were  not  sent  down  on  the 
one  night  when  they  might  have  turned  the  dark  fortunes  of 
the  hour. 

The  sinister  quiet  did  not  last  long. 

In  one  awful  instant  a  wild  glare  lit  up  the  scene.  Then 
like  the  deafening  detonation  of  a  volcano  with  its  myriad 
quakings,  throbbings  and  blazings  came  a  crash  and  a  horrible 
din.  Porter's  mortar-boats  reopened  their  bombardment,  with 
a  shriek  and  roar  of  bursting  shells,  grape,  canister  and  shrap- 
nel. Forts  Jackson  and  St.  Philip  responded  with  fury,  but 
little  effect.  "Oh  for  the  fire-barges  whose  light  would  give 
us  aim  and  accuracy !"  groaned  Duncan,  in  his  desperation 
peering  into  the  darkness  with  a  wild  hope  that  he  might  catch 
a  gleam  of  their  flaming  torches.  But  his  appeal  was  heard 
only  by  the  night  winds  struggling  with  the  dense  smoke  that, 
belching  from  the  mortars,  added  to  the  gloom  of  the  night. 

Under  cover  of  darkness  and  the  fierce  hail  of  the  mortar- 
boats,  Farragut's  fleet  like  ill-  omened  ghosts — each  vessel 
grimed  with  river-mud  to  make  it  more  a  part  of  the  night — 
under  a  full  pressure  of  steam  made  the  historic  passage  of  the 
forts.  Each  one  in  rushing  past  poured  broadside  after  broad- 
side of  shot  and  shell  in  swift  succession  into  the  forts.  Once 
past,  safe  and  victorious  from  the  perilous  transit,  they  steamed 
slowly  up  the  river  to  their  appointed  rendezvous  at  Quaran 
tine  Station,  six  miles  above.  The  passage  of  the  fleet  was 
brief  in  point  of  time — less  than  two  hours — but  long  in  ten- 
sion as  human  hearts  beat. 


32 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

There  were  presages  enough  of  coming  disaster;  but  still 
above  the  forts  floated  the  Confederate  flag  inspiring  valor. 
Unhappily,  however,  the  colors  while  inspiring  courage  could 
not  confirm  loyalty.  Mutiny  broke  out  in  the  two  forts  and 
signals  were  exchanged  between  the  mutineers.  Perhaps  here 
best  may  be  emphasized  a  consolation  for  state  pride.  No 
native  Louisianian  was  among  the  mutineers. 

In  the  meantime,  the  iron-clad  Louisiana,  pulling  and 
tugging  at  her  moorings  and  longing  like  a  fierce  mastiff  held 
in  leash  to  get  at  the  enemy,  had  fired  only  a  few  scattering 
shots  from  her  guns.  Owing  to  the  position  in  which  she  had 
been  made  fast  to  the  bank  and  to  the  incompleted  condition 
of  her  interior,  her  guns  could  not  be  trained  so  effectively 
upon  the  enemy's  advancing  fleet  as  had  been  hoped.  After 
the  gallant  work  of  the  "Manassas"  in  her  bold  rush  upon  the 
"Hartford"  and  her  subseuent  disablement,  the  "Louisiana" 
received  her  officers  and  men  aboard. 

On  the  27th  negotiations  for  the  surrender  of  the  forts 
were  initiated  by  Commodore  Porter,  of  the  mortar-flotilla. 
On  the  28th,  disheartened  by  the  mutiny  of  garrisons  in  the 
forts  and  the  reported  capture  of  New  Orleans,  the  conditions 
were  accepted  by  General  Duncan.  Soon  after,  the  Harriet 
Lane  with  Commodore  Porter  and  officers — a  white  flag  at  the 
fore — came  opposite  the  forts  to  receive  and  sign  the  terms  of 
capitulation.  Negotiations  were  proceeding  amicably  on  the 
Harriet  Lane,  when  on  the  Mississippi — of  late  so  rich  in 
stately  spectacles — appeared  a  portent  as  awful  as  it  was  mys- 
terious, floating  by  to  interrupt  the  proceedings  on  board. 

It  was  the  "Louisiana,"  once  a  powerful  iron-clad,  but  at  this 
moment  a  helpless  wreck,  drifting  and  discharging  her  guns  at 
random.  How  worse  than  useless !  The  fleet  which  she  had 
been  specially  armed  to  resist  and  terrify,  was  lying  at  victo- 
rious peace  in  the  river  in  front  of  New  Orleans.  The  mortar- 
schooners  which  she  might,  if  properly  handled,  have  gripped 
hard  and  sunk  with  her  powerful  battery,  were  near  the  head 
of  the  Passes,  warily  watching  her  and  the  forts.  Hopeless 
to  save  her  from  the  superior  power  bearing  down  on  her  from 
every  side,  her  officers  set  her  on  fire,  and  sent  her  with  all 
her  guns  protruding,  down  the  river.     Although  in  her  death 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 33 

throes  drifting  aimlessly  as  the  current  bore  her,  she  was  moie 
fortunate  than  her  sister-craft — the  great  steam-ram  "Missis- 
sippi"— which  was  taken  above  the  city,  riddled  and  burned 
before  she  had  fired  a  gun !  Abandoned  to  her  own  terrible 
self,  the  luckless  "Louisiana"  floated  down  in  the  presence  of 
the  guns  of  the  mortar-fleet.  The  clumsy  mortars,  as  she 
drifted  past,  struggled  to  escape  the  blazing  wreck,  even  in 
its  ruin  a  menace.  When  near  her  old  moorings  close  to  St. 
Philip,  suddenly,  from  the  great  iron-clad  came  the  deafening 
explosion  of  her  powder  magazine,  scattering  fragments  of 
her  wood-work  everywhere  within  and  around  the  fortifica- 
tions ;  then  a  mighty  plunge  like  some  wallowing  monster  of 
the  deep  and  the  "Louisiana"  sank  into  the  abyss  of  waters  ! 
The  blowing-up,  as  if  in  angry  protest  against  surrender,  shook 
the  signers  of  the  capitulation  horn  their  seats  and  careened 
the  "Harriet  Lane"  on  her  side.  Once  righted,  her  officers 
rushed  on  deck,  but  saw  only  the  river  flowing  sullenly  to  the 
Gulf,  while  not  a  ripple  upon  the  surface  showed  where  the 
"Louisiana"  had  committed  her  awful  suicide. 

It  looked  like  the  grimmest  irony  or  a  hostile  fate,  that  the 
only  casualties  from  the  Louisiana's  formidable  battery  should 
have  comprised  one  of  our  own  men  killed  in  the  fort,  and 
three  or  four  wounded. 

So,  in  a  flame  of  fire,  ashes  and  glory  perished  the  ill- 
starred  "Louisiana,"  on  whose  strength  and  the  stout  hearts 
beating  within  her  iron  ribs  had  rested  so  many  fond  hopes. 
She  never  fulfilled  the  purpose  for  which  she  was  built;  but 
who  dares  deny  that  her  phantom  flag  will  float  over  the  river, 
from  New  Orleans  to  the  Passes,  so  long  as  the  Mississippi 
has   memories ! 


34  WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 


FOUR  RICHMOND  GIRLS 

IT  was  the  2nd  of  April  of  that  most  disastrous  year.  1865. 
that  Miss  X.  attended  morning  worship  in  the  old  Monu- 
mental Church  of  Richmond,  Va.  A  vague  unrest  born 
of  premonition  seemed  to  permeate  the  congregation  as,  dis- 
missed by  the  rector,  they  slowly  moved  down  the  aisles  to 
the  central  exit.  At  the  doorway,  as  Miss  X.  stepped  upon 
the  marble  vestibule,  her  arm  was  firmly  seized  by  a  friend  in 
waiting  and  she  was  hurriedly  drawn  aside  from  the  pressing 
crowd.  In  a  low  tone  was  whispered:  "I  am  just  from  St. 
Pauls'.  The  President  received  a  dispatch  and  left  the  church 
in  haste.  Gen.  Ewell  has  ordered  out  the  militia.  It  is  said 
that  Richmond  is  to  be  evacuated  to-night.  Come  !"  Ominous 
whisper  that  boded  much  !  A  look  that  spoke  volumes  was 
interchanged  and  the  friends  silently  tried  to  make  their  way 
through  the  steadily  increasing,  questioning  crowds  on  the 
sidewalks.  Already  the  direful  news  was  in  the  air,  but  its 
effects  were  stunning  rather  than  demonstrative  of  either  anger 
or  grief.  It  seemed  as  if  a  mephitic  vapor  had  fallen  from  mid- 
air and  clogged  the  utterance  of  speech.  People  looked  at  each 
other  and  in  some  subtle  way  understood  that  all  was  over, 
that  love,  valor,  sacrifice — not  even  Lee  in  whom  they  trusted 
— could  do  aught  more  for  the  proud  Capital  of  the  Confed- 
eracy. It  was  doomed !  And  yet  the  heavens  smiled  serenely 
fair!  It  seemed  so  strange  to  see  that  bright  sunshine  on  the 
streets  and  the  skies  so  blue,  when  the  cold  shadow  of  despair 
was  creeping  over  human  hearts. 

The  friends  hurried  home  and  packed  a  few  necessaries  in 
handbags.  Now,  their  number  augmented  by  two  others,  they 
hurried  to  the  depot.  It  was  about  4  p.  m.  and  the  platform 
was  jammed  with  struggling  humanity  seeking  entrance  to  a 
long  train  that  was  drawn  up  for  departure,  and  impatiently 
signalling  to  be  off.  What  was  remarkable  was  the  fact  that 
there  were  no  noisy  protests  when  trunks  were  refused,  or 
tumbled  off  when  surreptitiously  put  on — whatever  came  was 
stoically  accepted.  All  was  confusion  of  moment ;  but  it  was 
a  confusion  dominated  by  a  sullen  silence  of  disappointment 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 35 

and  heart-break.  No  ticket  agent  was  in  sight.  It  was  '"save 
himself  who  can."  After  vain  attempts  to  gain  a  foothold, 
even  upon  the  open  freight  cars,  the  four  friends  returned  to 
their  home.  All  Richmond  was  now  upon  the  streets.  They 
passed  groups  blanched  in  face  standing  at  street  corners,  or 
leaning  over  the  gates  of  residences  asking  in  troubled  tones 
for  the  latest  news  from  Lee — their  alarm  increased  by  be- 
lated orderlies  who,  carrying  despatches,  clattered  by  with 
whip  and  spur.  It  seemed  impossible  for  the  four  young 
women  to  get  out  of  the  beleagured  city,  and  yet  it  was  equally 
impossible  for  them  to  remain  and  face  the  invading  army  on 
the  morrow.  "What  was  to  be  done?"  they  despairingly  asked 
one  another.  They  knew  that  they  were  desperately  hungry, 
for  they  had  eaten  nothing  for  hours — that  was  the  first  point. 
After  a  scant  meal  of  corn  bread  and  cold  turnips  left  from 
dinner  of  the  day  before,  again  the  quartette  with  anxious 
hearts  footed  the  long  weary  way  back  to  the  depot.  It  was 
now  about  8  p.  m.  and  the  aspect  of  the  city  had  changed.  In 
the  semi-darkness,  companies  of  cavalry,  like  phantom  horse- 
men speaking  to  none,  but  stern  and  grim,  thundered  over  the 
stony  pavements ;  the  gutters  ran  a  river  of  strong  drink  and 
a  rabble,  both  white  and  black,  knelt  upon  the  ground  and  lean- 
ing over  the  edge  drank  of  its  flow  like  swine,  or  filled  buckets 
and  bottles  to  take  home.  Knots  of  negroes  gathered  on  the 
sidewalks  and  seemed  dazed,  as  if  they  could  not  make  out  the 
turn  of  events.  Like  their  masters,  they  too  were  under  the 
spell  that  forbade  utterance  or  emotion.  Through  this  half- 
drunken,  but  almost  mute  crowd,  the  four  friends  reached  the 
depot.  A  long  line  of  cars  was  drawn  up  that  in  the  uncertain 
light  seemed  to  stretch  a  league  into  outer  darkness,  and 
promise  accommodation  for  the  constantly  increasing  mob  of 
refugees.  But  again  the  girls  found  that  expostulations,  en- 
treaties, prayers  were  only  a  waste  of  vital  energy.  However, 
deliverance  was  at  hand.  A  rough,  but  sympathetic  official 
standing  near,  wearied  perchance  with  the  feminine  din,  gruffly 
said:  "Ladies,  this  is  a  Government  train  with  no  room  for 
civilian  passengers,  but,  if  you  will  go,  the  only  place  is  on 
top  of  the  cars.  Up  that  ladder  at  the  end  is  where  you  have 
to  go."    The  friends,  in  dismay,  contemplated  what  was  before 


36 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

them.  A  perpendicular  climb  of  several  yards  and  afterward 
should  they  survive  the  attempt,  a  ride  through  rain  or  shine  on 
top  of  a  car.  Oh,  shades  of  Southern  ancestry  and  instincts  of 
feminine  reserve!  But  it  was  the  time  for  action,  not  words. 
Miss  X.  was  a  young  woman  of  decision  and  solved  the  prob- 
lem. Out  of  that  city  she  had  to  go,for  her  two  brothers  lying 
in  soldiers'  graves  had  sworn  that  their  sisters  should  never  be 
within  the  enemy's  lines.  Bravely,  she  seized  a  round  of  the 
ladder  and  with  strong  pulls  finally  reached  the  sloping  top. 
Amid  hysterical  encouragement  to  one  another,  friend  fol- 
lowed friend,  until  the  four  were  aboard,  drawn  up  close  to- 
gether on  what  seemed  a  central  plank,  on  top  of  a  carriage 
that  promised  both  peril  and  discomfort.  The  train  lingered 
and  from  their  point  of  vantage  they  looked  with  aching  hearts 
upon  the  motley  scene  below,  and  thought  with  dread  upon 
what  the  morrow  was  to  bring  forth.  The  car  on  which  they 
perched  was  out  in  the  open  and  they  watched  the  rockets, 
signalling  retreat  and  disaster,  flashing  high  up  among  the 
stars.  They  shivered  in  the  chill  night  air  and  drew  closer 
together  as  a  dull  report  following  an  explosion  was  heard,  or 
the  blaze  of  a  house  in  flames  lit  up  the  darkness.  Towards 
the  morning  hours  the  train  pulled  out  on  its  long  journey, 
and  the  last  view  of  the  heroic  city  by  the  James  was  framed 
in  the  smoke  and  flames  of  burning  cotton  and  tobacco. 

Away  the  train  sped  through  desolate  fields,  but  ever 
under  a  mocking  blue  sky.  Not  much  chance  or  desire  for 
conversation  was  there.  Sometimes,  an  overhanging  branch 
from  a  wayside  tree  made  the  ladies  duck  their  heads  to  escape 
a  stinging  slap  in  the  face,  and  the  swinging  of  the  cars  on 
long  unrepaired  roads  produced  a  giddiness  as  if  tossed  on  the 
ocean  waves. 

At  last,  the  long  dreary  day  ended.  That  night,  April  3rd. 
at  11  o'clock,  Danville  was  reached  and  the  free  ride  was  over. 
Half  asleep  from  exhaustion  and  fatigue,  stiff  from  cramped 
muscles  and  faint  from  the  fast  of  hours,  Miss  X.  and  her  com- 
panions backed  down  the  narrow  upright  ladder  and  stood 
upon  the  ground.  Imagine  the  amazement  of  the  adventurous 
damsels,  when  horrified  friends  informed  them  that  they  had 
made  the  journey  from  Richmond  to  Danville  atop  an  ammu- 
nition train! 

NOTE — This  and  the  following  sketch  are  compiled  from  the  author's  own 
personal  experience  while  as  Miss  Ada  Stuart  she  served  the  Confederate  Gov- 
ernment so   loyally  and  so  faithfully.    . 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE  37 


THE  HALT 

THE  spring  of  1865,  in  Virginia,  was  one  of  the  fairest 
ever  given  to  earth.  There  was  a  thrill  in  the  air,  a 
lustre  in  the  light,  a  joyous  beauty  all  around  that 
seemed  strangely  out  of  tune  with  the  sorrowful  drama-of-war 
played  by  man  beneath  the  ever-smiling,  unclouded  sky.  The 
gardens  bloomed  like  a  second  Eden ;  undisturbed  by  human  ' 
tragedy,  the  aspens  danced  lightly  in  the  soft  sunshine,  flinging 
their  gossamer  lace-like  shadows  over  the  green  lawns ;  and 
every  breeze  that  swept  the  cheek  came  laden  with  rich  per- 
fume from  the  forest  jasmine.  None  looking  upon  this  deli- 
cate beauty,  enlivened  by  the  glad  song  of  minstrel  birds,  could 
ever  dream  that  the  men  and  women  of  the  Old  Dominion 
were,  in  reality,  a  band  of  mourners  gathered  at  a  Nation's 
deathbed.  The  little  town  of  Danville  seemed  a  place  for  the 
soft,  rosy  dreams  of  peace  and  security,  not  for  fear  and  wail- 
ing, nor  for  the  bugle  call  to  meet  danger,  disaster  and  humili- 
ation. 

It  was  here  that  President  Davis  and  his  Cabinet  halted 
for  a  few  days  after  the  flight  from  Richmond.  The  reopening 
of  departments,  the  dash  of  mounted  soldiery,  of  couriers 
coming  and  going  gave  quite  a  martial,  lively  air  to  the  sleepy, 
country  town.  Refugees  came  crowding  in  from  all  over  the 
State,  for  the  dread  of  separation  from  loved  ones  by  falling 
within  the  enemy's  lines  was  upon  all.  We  literally  lived  out 
of  doors  those  last  days  of  the  Confederacy,  for  hearts  were 
too  restless  and  oppressed  to  remain  within.  Sitting  on  the 
front  steps,  the  swift  hoof-beats  of  a  horseman  galloping  past 
would  bring  every  one  in  a  tumultuous  rush  to  the  gate  to 
scan  his  face  and  read  the  message  it  bore  of  good  or  ill  tidings. 
It  was  in  the  air  that  our  troops  in  North  Carolina  would  have 
to  fall  back  to  some  more  distant  Southern  point ;  but  we  were 
not  dismayed,  for  we  understood  that  it  meant  only  a  new  line 
of  defence  where  Johnson  would  form  and  fight  again.  Then 
came  the  President's  stirring,  hopeful  proclamation  that  rang 
out  in  our  ears  like  the  notes  of  a  clarion  invoking  renewed 
effort  and  devotion.  We  caught  its  indomitable  spirit,  foe 
Appomattox  had  not  yet  been  reached,  and  we  likened  our 


38 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

gloomy  present  to  the  dark  days  of  Wallace  and  Bruce  when 
they  fought  for  Scotland's  deliverance.  Boldness  and  adven- 
ture won  for  the  Scots,  why  not  for  the  Confederates?  Our 
hearts,  like  that  of  the  President,  were  unconquered  and  un- 
conquerable. So  truly  confident  were  we  that  the  God  ot 
Battles  was  with  us,  despite  the  fact  that  we  were  overborne 
by  numbers ;  driven  from  our  Capital ;  our  once  victorious 
army  sullenly  falling  back,  still  we  cried :  "God  is  in  it  all — as 
truly  in  the  dreadful  retreat  from  Petersburg  as  in  the  sun- 
glory  of  the  first  Manassas."  Though  fronting  constant  dis- 
aster, our  hearts  stubbornly  assumed  that  victory,  in  the  end, 
would  crown  the  South.  Sometimes,  however,  when  we 
thought  of  Lee  in  whom  we  always  trusted,  now  so  far  away; 
of  his  right  arm,  great  Stonewall  Jackson,  forever  still;  of  his 
left,  Stuart,  that  "Flower  of  Cavaliers,"  under  the  sod,  in 
spite  of  the  effort  to  be  brave  and  strong  against  such  heavy 
odds,  a  shadowy  fear  crept  out  of  the  future  and  chilled  our 
hearts. 

It  was  in  this  epoch-making  time  that  two  young  Govern- 
ment employes  of  the  Richmond  post  office — Miss  Selden  and 
Miss  X.  found  themselves  in  Danville,  still  attached  to  the 
fortunes  of  a  fugitive  Government ;  but  without  opportunity 
for  giving  it  service.  Until  the  routine  was  established  calling 
for  renewal  of  their  duties,  they  were  fortunate  in  finding 
friends  who  opened  hospitable  doors  to  them.  Miss  X.  was 
taken  in  charge  by  the  mother  of  "raiding  Jeb.  Stuart,"  whom 
the  fair  Virginians  dubbed  "The  Knight  of  the  Golden  Spurs." 
To  be  thrown  so  intimately  with  this  distinguished  and  stately 
old  lady,  and  to  hear  from  her  own  lips,  told  with  a  mother's 
eager  warmth,  delightful  home  gossipry  of  the  bold  leader  of 
the  famous  Pamunkey  expedition,  was  an  incident  that  ap- 
pealed most  strongly  to  the  hero-worshiping,  enthusiastic  tem- 
perament of  this  young  girl.  It  came  into  her  life  like  a  bright 
flower  found  blooming  under  a  gray,  wintry  sky. 

Several  restless  days  were  spent  in  anticipation  of  a 
summons  to  duty — varied  one  beautiful  Sunday  morning  by 
church  services  and  a  prayer  for  President  Davis.  How  little 
we  dreamed  it  was  for  the  last  time !  Then  the  two  friends 
were  notified  to  hold  themselves  in  readiness  to  report  to  their 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 39 

department  at  Greensboro,  North  Carolina.  The  sunny  after- 
noon upon  which  they  received  orders  found  them  promptly 
at  the  depot.  They  were  at  once  given  accommodations  in  a 
rough  box  car  whose  sole  merit  was  that  it  was  wholly  private 
to  themselves.  It  was  roomy,  but  with  open  doors,  and  void 
of  any  attempt  at  comfort  or  convenience.  Its  furniture  was 
limited  to  two  chairs  and  some  nondescript  luggage.  The 
fearless  temper  of  the  women  of  that  time  is  clearly  shown  in 
the  fact  that  these  two  young  girls — brought  up  in  comfort 
and  refinement,  and  with  a  most  scrupulous  observance  of  the 
proprieties  of  life — accepted  the  situation,  not  only  without 
question  or  complaint,  but  with  cheerful  stoicism  as  a  neces- 
sary outcome  of  the  times.  Alone  in  a  box  car,  in  a  season 
of  war;  off  on  a  train  that  went  whizzing  away  to  Greensboro 
like  an  uncanny  monster  in  the  darkness  and  silence  of  the 
night !  A  perilous  trip  for  two  young  maidens,  does  it  not 
seem — as  we  view  it  in  the  light  of  this  quiet,  uneventful, 
prosaic  present — forty-five  years  after  occurrence?  Life  de- 
manded prompt  action  in  those  stormy  days  and  everything 
was  so  topsy-turvy  that,  if  called  upon  to  ride  on  the 
horns  of  the  moon  in  discharge  of  their  accepted  duty,  they 
would  have  responded  to  the  call,  feeling  that  some  way  would 
be  provided  to  make  the  feat  possible. 

The  train  stopped  a  short  time  at  Compay  Shops  beyond 
the  Virginia  line,  and  kind  old  Col.  Clement  of  the  Richmond 
post  office,  like  a  good  Samaritan,  sent  a  couple  of  hospital 
mattresses,  a  new  tin  basin  and  also  some  apples  for  the  re- 
freshment of  the  young  marooners.  Matters  were  much  im- 
proved by  his  thoughtful  kindness  and  in  the  twilight  they 
became  quite  merry,  as  they  spread  their  apples  for  a  "star- 
vation party"  and  speculated  upon  the  future.  President  Davis 
and  his  aide,  Col.  Wm.  Preston  Johnston,  loyal  Judge  Reagan 
with  several  other  members  of  the  Cabinet,  were  in  a  car  not 
far  from  that  occupied  by  the  two  young  girls.  Judge  of  their 
surprise  when  a  little  after  sunrise  the  next  morning,  Colonel 
Clement  suddenly  appeared  from  somewhere  and  asked  to  bor- 
row the  tin  pan  for  the  President's  ablutions.  Fortunately, 
their  slight  toilettes  had  been  discreetly  made  in  the  early 
dawn  so,  regretting  that  they  could  not  furnish  towels  also,  the 


40 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

laughing  damsels  cheerily  sent  the  pan  for  His  Excellency's 
service  and  felt  quite  honored  by  the  requisition — homely 
though  it  was.  Later  in  the  day,  it  crept  out  that  the  entire 
Presidential  party,  one  by  one,  had  followed  their  Chief's 
example  in  the  use  of  the  pan.  Only  an  humble  bit  of  tin- 
ware was  it,  but  a  relic  to  be  sought  after,  when  one  recalls 
the  distinguished  and  historic  group  of  faces  reflected  from 
its  shining  surface. 

From  Greensboro,  a  day  or  two  after,  the  Confederate 
Government  as  represented  by  its  Executive  and  Cabinet  went 
Southward.  Then  came  the  crash  of  doom !  With  the  Gov- 
ernment in  the  saddle,  the  two  employes  realized  that  the 
death  warrant  of  all  things  Confederate  was  written,  and  theii 
connection  with  the  post  office  had  ended  without  the  for- 
mality of  a  dismissal.  The  "Lady  Mayoress"  of  Greensboro, 
having  heard  of  the  freight  car  episode,  cordially  invited  the 
young  ladies  to  accept  her  hospitality  during  their  enforced 
stay  in  the  town — an  invitation  of  which  they  gladly  and 
gratefully  hastened  to  avail  themselves.  In  the  meantime, 
events  were  making  history  fast.  Fate  struck  the  South  two 
hard  blows.  One  was  the  assassination  of  the  Northern  Pres- 
ident, and  the  other — crushing  us  with  anger,  grief  and  humil- 
iation— was  the  capture  and  disgraceful  treatment  of  the  Chief 
Magistrate  of  our  beloved  Confederacy. 

The  two  young  employes  never  understood  why,  01 
through  whose  agency  they  were  awarded  thirty  Mexican  dol- 
lars, each,  also  a  20-pound  box  of  tobacco  apiece,  as  a  share 
of  the  ex-Government  spoils.  What  became  of  the  tobacco 
was  problematical,  but  the  silver  money  came  in  most  hap- 
pily, for  the  treasury  notes  were  now  worthless,  save  for  sen- 
timent. On  their  return  to  Danville,  Miss  Selden  finding  the 
North  an  open  door,  at  once  went  on  to  her  friends  in  Mary- 
land. Miss  X.  was  again  taken  under  the  wing  of  Mrs.  Stuart 
until,  later  on,  she  rejoined  her  friends  in  that  city  of  ruins  and 
sentinel  chimney-stacks,  the  fire-scarred,  blackened  Capital  of 
the  dead  Confederacy — sad  Richmond-by-the-James. 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 41 

PART  II. 
THE  CONFEDERATE  GIRL. 

PART  I. 

(Data  for  this  and  the  two  following  papers  furnished  by 
Mrs.  George  H.  Tichenor,  of  New  Orleans.) 

JUNE  3,  1861,  Tennessee  severed  her  connection  with  the 
Union.  At  once  "Soldier  Serving  Societies"  were  organ- 
ized by  the  ladies  of  Memphis  for  the  purpose  of  making 
uniforms  and  clothing  for  our  troops,  and  the  preparation  of 
bandages,  lint,  etc.,  for  the  hospitals.  Old  and  young,  matron 
and  maid  were  eager  to  aid  in  a  cause  that  appealed  strongly 
both  to  their  affection  and  patriotism.  Soon  the  gatherings 
outgrew  private  houses  and,  when  other  buildings  were  not 
available,  the  churches  were  pressed  into  service  for  their 
noble  work — a  work  all  untrained,  but  pursued  with  a  heart 
and  soul  that  gave  it  life  and  energy. 

Among  the  numbers  that  daily  crowded  one  of  these 
churches — turned  during  the  week  into  an  immense  sewing- 
room — might  be  noted  a  young  school  girl,  Margaret  Thurman 
Drane  by  name,  a  golden  haired  lass  of  fourteen  with  eyes  of 
Scottish  blue.  Ardently  Confederate,  each  day  after  school 
she  hastily  tripped  to  church  to  aid  in  what  warm  fancy  and 
a  generous  heart  proclaimed  a  glorious  task — that  of  making 
garments  for  the  brave  boys  already  on  their  way  to  Manassas, 
battle  field  of  Virginia.  Her  eyes  must  have  grown  large  from 
wonder  and  dim  from  dismay  when  the  grey  uniform  coat  of 
an  officer  was  put  into  her  untried  hands  to  make.  Poor  little 
lass !  She  knew  how  to  hemstitch,  but  not  how  to  back-stitch, 
and  it  was  before  the  days  when  sewing  machines  were  made 
as  much  a  part  of  the  household  equipment  as  beds  and  chairs. 
However,  her  heart  was  stout  and  with  fingers  both  willing 
and  diligent,  after  two  days  of  hard  toil  and  the  breakage  of 
a  paper  of  needles,  the  coat  was  completed.  Alas  !  when  her 
labor  of  love  was  scrutinized  at  headquarters,  no  fault  could  be 
found  with  the  stitches,  but  it  was  discovered  that  while  the 
front  and  side  pieces  had  been  laboriously  sewed  together,  the 


42 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

back  had  been  innocently  left  out !  She  did  not  receive  the 
blue  ribbon  for  her  work  that  day,  but  was  assigned  the  less 
responsible  task  of  bringing  hot  smoothing  irons  from  the  base- 
ment, upstairs,  to  be  used  in  pressing  seams. 

A  new  hotel  that  had  never  been  used  as  a  hostelry  was 
converted  into  a  hospital  and  the  city  was  divided  into  sec- 
tions, each  section  taking  its  turn  at  service.  The  mothers, 
with  a  train  of  household  servants  nursed  the  wounded  and 
sick,  while  the  young  girls  carried  flowers,  wrote  letters  for 
the  convalescent  soldiers  and  sometimes — it  was  told  with 
much  glee  by  the  mischievous  recipients — they  again  washed 
faces  that,  in  the  course  of  a  day,  had  already  received  due 
attention  by  earlier  visitors,  at  least  half  a  dozen  times — all 
equally  solicitous  of  giving  aid  and  comfort  to  our  brave  de- 
fenders. Here  came  our  lass — most  eager  to  help,  but  so  little 
knowing  how.  Timidly  threading  the  long  aisle  of  cots,  she 
was  implored  by  a  soldier  suffering  from  a  gunshot  wound  to 
rub  his  arm  with  liniment  to  cool  his  fever  and  ease  its  throb- 
bing pain.  Proud  to  be  called  upon,  her  eyes  bright  and  face 
aglow  from  sympathy,  she  seized  a  bottle  nearby  and  hastily 
poured  its  contents  on  arm  and  in  wound — bathing,  saturating, 
rubbing  it  in  with  all  the  energy  of  which  her  young  muscles 
were  capable  to  make  sure  it  would  do  good  work.  "Ah !  un- 
fortunate girl !"  shrieked  the  soldier  from  the  cot,  his  agonizing 
pain  getting  the  better  of  his  chivalry.  At  the  sound  of  his 
wrathful  voice  there  was  a  sudden  flutter  of  skirts  and  patter 
of  feet,  for  the  young  practitioner  fled  down  the  aisle  that 
seemed  endless,  for  fear  that  she  had  killed  him  !  We  will 
trust  that  the  remedy  was  curative — it  certainly  was  heroic 
and  the  pungent  odors  of  turpentine  were  not  a  sweet,  health- 
distilling  fragrance  in  a  ward  filled  with  sick  folk. 

The  days  had  now  come  when  the  looms  of  Dixie,  hitherto 
an  unknown  quantity,  were  to  be  busy  weaving  homespun  for 
its  people  to  wear.  But  Margaret  Drane  with  her  sister  and 
two  young  friends  may  claim  to  be  the  first  of  the  "Homespun 
Girls"  of  Dixie  of  gentle  birth  who  wore  that  much  derideo, 
homely  material.  A  good-humored  merchant  of  the  city, 
doubtful  of  their  brave,  oft-repeated  cry  to 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 43 

"Live  and  die  for  Dixie" 
resolved  to  test  them  on  a  point  where  he  was  confident  their 
girlish  vanity  would  shake  their  constancy.  It  was  in  the  first 
days  of  the  war  when  Southern  maidens  still  affected  what 
was  dainty  and  becoming.  Cynicus  challenged  them  to  put 
aside  their  pretty,  airy,  muslin  frocks  and  walk  down  tne 
fashionable  thoroughfare  of  Main  Street  clad  in  humble  home- 
spun. While  daring  them  to  do  this,  he  offered  to  make  the 
material  a  gift.  At  once  the  quick  pride  of  the  Confederate 
girl  was  touched.  She  gloried  in  this  opportunity  for  the  sac- 
rifice of  personal  vanity  upon  the  altar  of  patriotism.  The 
merchant's  offer  was  accepted  so  soon  as  made  and  the  girls 
marched  in  a  bevy  to  his  store.  There  they  selected  the  un- 
mistakably genuine  article,  with  their  own  hands  made  the 
dresses  in  the  style  of  the  day — ten  widths  to  the  skirt,  tight 
waist  and  low-corded  neck.  Wearing  their  homespun,  not  as 
housemaids,  but  as  if  it  were  the  ermine  of  royalty,  and  trying 
to  keep  step  in  their  ungainly  brogans ;  with  cornshuck  hats  of 
their  own  braiding,  bravely  trimmed  with  red-white-and-red 
ribbons,  shading  their  blushing  faces,  the  appearance  of  the 
quartette  on  Main  Street  at  once  set  the  patriotic  fashion  and 
made  them  the  toast  of  the  hour. 

Ah  !  those  early  days  of  a  war  that  had  not  yet  grown  cruel 
and  when,  to  the  bounding  heart  of  youth,  the  drama  seemed 
just  enough  touched  with  danger  to  be  wonderfully  fascinat- 
ing and  entertaining!  In  the  summer  of  '61  it  was  more  of  a 
game  than  a  reality.  Our  girls,  from  daily  visits  to  the  soldiers' 
target  practise,  were  fired  with  a  spirit  of  emulation.  "Who 
could  tell' — they  reasoned — "but  what,  like  the  Maid  of  Sara- 
gossa,  behind  the  rampart  of  cotton  hales  with  which  General 
Pillow  has  fortified  the  river  front,  we,  too,  may  defend  our 
city."  True,  many  of  the  young  maids  had  learned  to  handle 
without  fear  the  pistols  coaxed  from  brothers  and  friends  and, 
too  proud  to  betray  ignorance,  after  a  unique  fashion  of  their 
own,  loaded  them.  First  they  carefully  rammed  in  a  generous 
wad  of  paper,  then  bullets  and  all  the  powder  the  chambers 
would  hold.  But  lo !  nothing  they  could  do  would  induce  the 
weapon  to  go  off  and  the  entire  contents  persisted  in  rolling 
out.    Again  and  again  the  charge  was  varied,  bullets  at  bottom 


44 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

and  paper  on  top,  but  of  no  avail.  Possibly  the  cap  was  omit- 
ted. They  could  not  tell,  but  cheerily  looked  to  the  future 
to  remedy  their  inexperience  and  crown  them  with  laurels. 
By  no  means  discouraged,  they  turned  to  the  target-practise — 
shooting  with  guns  and  cartridges  already  prepared  and  about 
which  there  could  be  no  perplexing  mixture  of  contents.  Their 
spirits  rose,  for  it  seemed  so  easy.  Margaret  led  her  compan- 
ions in  this  as  in  whatever  enlisted  the  sympathies  of  her 
adventurous  spirit.  Ambitious  to  excel,  she  flouted  the  friend- 
ly counsel  of  her  wise  but  over-mischievous  escort,  and  chose 
for  her  first  essay  a  sharp-shooter  rifle  intended  to  pick  off  its 
victim  a  mile  distant.  Averting  her  eyes,  she  resolutely  pulled 
the  trigger.  What  fatal  ease !  There  was  a  terrific  bang  as 
if  earth  and  heaven  had  collided.  The  rifle  was  dropped — our 
brave  sharpshooter  knew  not  where,  for  a  space  she  knew 
nothing !  Dazed  by  the  shock  of  sound,  she  fell  backward  and 
rolled  down  hill  to  be  picked  up  a  somewhat  bruised  and  ach- 
ing young  rebel,  but  irrepressible  as  ever  and  burning  with 
the  desire  to  fit  herself  for  the  service  of  Dixie. 

If  there  was  one  delinquency  more  than  another  resolutely 
frowned  upon,  and  that  excited  the  keenest  contempt  of  a 
Dixie  girl,  it  was  the  cowardice  of  a  man  that  kept  him  at 
home  in  a  safe  berth  and  left  the  fighting  to  be  done  by  others. 
The  girls  looked  upon  that  as  a  blot  which  all  the  power  and 
wealth  of  the  world  could  not  purge  away.  Those  not  enrolled 
and  known  as  "Minute  men" — enlisted  for  the  war  and  ready 
for  the  field  at  a  moment's  notice — received  short  shrift  at  the 
hands  of  these  young  fire-eaters.  Margaret  bribed  a  young 
man,  whom  she  suspected  of  being  unduly  slow  in  entering 
the  ranks,  with  a  promise  to  mould  the  bullets  he  was  to  fire 
at  the  enemy.  To  do  this  tardy  young  Southerner  justice  it 
must  be  said  that  he  was  the  only  stay  of  his  mother  and  she 
was  both  a  widow  and  helpless  invalid.  But  golden  hair  and 
eyes  of  Scottish  blue  have  more  than  once  taken  the  crook 
out  of  the  way  for  a  man.  It  was  so  in  this  case.  The  young 
man  went  to  an  early  battle-field  taking  with  him  the  pledged 
dozen  bullets  shining  like  newly  minted  dollars.  Soon  it  was 
his  good  fortune  to  return  proudly  to  dangle  before  Marga- 
ret's shining  eyes  an  empty  sleeve,  and  tell  her  that  was  her 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 45 

work.  And  the  stouthearted  little  maiden  was  glad  while 
she  grieved,  for  the  South's  true  boy  had  stood  General  Bragg's 
grim  test  of  manhood — "To  the  front  to  die  as  a  soldier." 

So  the  memorable  year  of  1861  passed  away  and  the 
•  shadows  were  fast  deepening  over  the  land.  A  typical  girl  of 
the  '6o's,  our  Margaret  had  sewed,  wept  and  sung  for  the  boys 
in  gray  through  the  golden  summer  months  and  early  autumn 
days.  At  this  time  there  was  a  Thespian  temple  in  Memphis, 
newly  built,  but  never  opened  to  the  player  folk.  The  grand 
old  "Mothers"  of  the  city  took  possession  of  it  and  through 
local  talent  gave  concerts  for  the  purpose  of  equipping  several 
companies  with  uniforms.  Memory  recalls  one  of  those  tune- 
ful evenings,  when  all  the  girls  who  had  melody  in  their  voices 
gathered  upon  the  stage  arrayed  in  whitest  muslin,  with  red- 
dest roses  for  jewels,  to  sing  the  songs  of  Rebel-land  under 
the  waving  Stars  and  Bars.  And  the  rebel  girls  sang  with 
a  warmth  and  volume  of  voice  that  stirred  tender  old  memo- 
ries, or  touched  a  patriotic  chord  whose  vibrations  set  the 
audience  wild  with  enthusiastic  cheering  and  clapping  of  hands. 

The  "Marsellaise,"  "When  this  Cruel  War  is  Over,"  then 
the  sad  sweet  strains  of  "Lorena"  in  clear  bird-like  notes 
floated  through  the  hall  and  a  hush,  born  of  its  pathos,  fell 
upon  all.  Who  so  deservedly  proud  as  Margaret,  our  Con- 
federate Girl,  when  one  who  loved  the  song  told  her  that  she 
sang  it  better  than  a  great  singer,  claiming  the  fame  of  an 
artist!  "Lorena"  suggested  tears  and  heart-break,  so  there 
was  a  quick  transition  to  lively  old  favorites — as  well  known 
to  the  audience  as  the  whistlings  of  their  own  mocking-bird — 
such  as  "Maryland  my  Maryland,"  "Hard  Times  Come  No 
More,"  "My  Mary  Ann,"  with  a  score  of  others,  but  always 
sliding  at  the  close  into  the  inevitable  "Dixie"  that  was  the 
signal  for  a  shower  of  bouquets,  sonorous  hand-claps,  pound- 
ing of  feet,  and  strong-throated  hurrahs. 

In  the  meantime  our  Confederate  Girl  retires  from  the 
stage  to  come  forth  again  with  the  story  of  her  refugee  life 
and  subsequent  return  from  Memphis 


46 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

THE  CONFEDERATE  GIRL. 
PART  II. 

IT  WAS  late  in  1861  before  Commodore  Montgomery  and 
Commodore  Foote  tried  conclusions  as  to  superiority  of 

their  gunboats  under  the  'bluffs  of  Memphis.  Fathers  of 
families,  who  by  reasons  of  age,  etc.,  were  honorably  exempt 
from  military  service  and  were  at  home,  thought  it  prudent  to 
remove  to  points  less  exposed  to  invasion  by  the  common 
enemy.  Margaret  Thurman  Drane's  father — a  minister  who 
had  figured  prominently  in  the  Alexander  Campbell  debates  in 
Kentucky — decided  upon  Canton,  Mississippi,  as  a  retreat  and 
thitherto  our  Margaret  reluctantly  went. 

For  the  active,  sunny  temperament  of  our  Confederate 
girl,  Canton,  a  small  inland  town  of  Mississippi,  proved  rather 
a  dull  place  of  residence  compared  with  the  constant  excite- 
ment of  the  river  city,  Memphis,  in  war  times.  The  young 
girl's  madcap  energies  must  needs  have  a  vent  and  with  odd 
perversity  reached  their  climax  in  the  formation  of  a  Cavalry 
Company.  Among  the  numerous  girls  of  the  neighborhood 
she  soon  enlisted  sufficient  recruits,  but,  with  all  its  rosebud 
beauty  and  grace,  in  picturesque  accoutrements  it  might  have 
vied  with  Falstaff's  Ragged  Regiment.  A  mixed  multitude  of 
mules  and  broken  down  army  horses  bore  the  joyous,  adven- 
turous patriots  to  the  ground  where  they  drilled  by  Hardee's 
Tactics.  Their  bridles  were  formed  of  bag  ravelings  and 
girths  and  blankets  were  made  of  gunny  sacks.  There  were 
no  privates  in  this  well  appointed  company — it  consisted  wholly 
of  officers,  the  lieutenants  alone  being  seven  in  number!  In 
her  green  riding  habit  Capt.  Margaret,  gaily  and  fearlessly  at 
the  head  of  troop  rode  an  army  horse  loaned  for  the  occasion 
by  a  young  officer  at  home  on  furlough.  On  a  certain  evening 
as  she  rounded  a  corner  on  returning  from  her  daily  drill,  it 
so  chanced  that  some  soldiers  were  being  put  through  military 
instruction  in  the  taking  of  a  battery.  The  drums  beat,  the 
trumpets  gave  forth  a  blare  and  the  soldiers  charged — yells  of 
men  and  clatter  of  swords  rising  above  the  tumultuous  dash 
and  rush  of  horses.     At  once,  Margaret's  brave  warrior-steed 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 47 

caught  the  familiar  notes  and  needs  must  charge  along  with 
its  army  mates.  No  check  of  bit  or  bridle  could  change  its 
course.  Its  mettle  was  up  and  the  frightened  girl,  borne  up 
the  hill,  was  carried  in  the  onward  rush  to  the  very  front  of 
the  battery.  Once  there,  having  led  the  onset,  the  old  battle 
horse  halted,  its  ambition  was  satisfied ;  but  the  cavalrymen 
made  the  welkin  ring  with  cheer  after  cheer  for  the  dauntless 
courage  and  gallant  ride  of  blushing  Captain  Margaret  Drane. 

Despite  her  strenuous,  open-air  life,  our  girl  never  lost 
sight  of  the  practicalities.  Confronted  by  the  shoe  problem — 
one  that  often  tried  the  soul  of  a  Dixie  girl  to  the  uttermost — 
in  her  own  interest  she  bravely  turned  cobbler.  From  an  old 
ministerial  coat  of  her  father's  she  cut  out  what  was  known 
as  uppers.  Carefully  ripping  the  coat  seams  apart,  she  thread- 
ed her  needle  with  the  silk  thus  obtained  for  sewing  on  the 
soles,  that  meanwhile  had  been  soaked  in  water  to  make  them 
pliable  for  stitching.  Tiny  foldings  of  the  satin  lining  made 
strings  and  lo !  her  small  feet  soon  twinkled  in  new  comfort 
and  glory  as,  in  pride  and  gayety  of  heart,  she  pirouetted  from 
room  to  room. 

Only  six  months  of  refugee  life  in  Mississippi  when  the 
illness  of  a  daughter  left  behind  in  Memphis  called  for  the  pres- 
ence of  one  of  the  family.  It  was  decided  that  Margaret  should 
go  to  her.  Fortunately,  two  old  men,  Messrs.  Horton  and 
King,  the  first  well-known  to  her  father,  were  about  to  make 
one  of  their  periodical  trips  to  Memphis.  It  was  hinted  that 
these  old  men  were  a  brace  of  smugglers  and  spies  but,  as  they 
were  known  to  be  on  the  right  side  in  the  war,  loyal  to  the 
Confederacy  and  otherwise  trustworthy,  such  small  transgres- 
sions of  the  moral  code  counted  for  little  in  those  wild  days. 
Delighting  in  adventure  and  laughing  at  the  perils  of  the  trip 
in  prospect,  Margaret — confided  to  the  care  of  these  old  men 
and  with  Miss  Horton  as  companion — set  forth  in  a  topless 
buggy  to  make  the  distance  between  Canton  and  Memphis. 
It  was  just  after  Grierson's  raid  had  desolated  the  land.  The 
railroads  were  torn  up,  bridges  burned  and  the  long  stretches 
of  country  highways  were  almost  a  continuous  quagmire  from 
the  incessant  rains.    Seven  days  over  these  rough  army  roads, 


48 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

exposed  to  every  whim  of  weather,  brought  them  to  Hernando, 
Mississippi. 

In  the  meantime  Commodore  Foote  had  taken  Memphis 
after  a  most  dramatic  naval  combat  which,  from  its  high  bluffs, 
was  witnessed  by  the  citizens.  Bragg  was  in  Kentucky  and 
Confederate  spies  were  busy  collecting  and  forwarding  him 
information.  The  weather  was  sultry,  but,  despite  the  heat 
the  girls  had  a  quilting  bee.  They  made,  and  wore  beneath 
their  hoop-skirts,  petticoats,  into  which  were  stitched  import- 
ant papers  to  be  delivered  to  agents  in  Memphis.  Tape  loops 
at  the  top  of  these  petticoats  made  easy  their  quick  removal 
should  occasion  call  for  it.  Heavy  yarn  gloves  of  her  own 
knitting  covered  Margaret's  pretty  hands,  in  the  palms  of 
which  she  concealed  despatches  so  valuable  that  she  was  bid- 
den to  contrive  their  destruction  rather  than  risk  discovery. 

After  leaving  Hernando  and  reaching  Nonconnah — the 
little  stream  with  melodious  Indian  name  five  miles  out  from 
Memphis — the  girls  took  out  their  weapons.  Bravely  equipped 
with  pistols  they  made  the  perilous  crossing  only  to  fall  into 
the  hands  of  a  group  of  Yankee  soldiery  drawn  up  to  guard 
the  bank  and  fire  upon  all  daring  enough  to  come  within  range 
of  their  guns.  They  were  at  once  halted  by  a  Colonel — an 
elderly  officer  who  threatened  to  have  them  searched  at  the 
barracks  hard  by.  Margaret,  having  her  head  in  the  lion's 
mouth,  was  bent  on  saving  it  from  being  bitten  off.  Young  in 
years,  yet  she  was  a  true  daughter  of  Eve  and  resolved  upon 
showing  a  charming  candor  to  this  elderly  man  of  war.  Ex- 
tending her  gloved  hands,  palm  downward  to  conceal  the  bulky 
despatches,  and  putting  out  her  shapely  feet  encased  in  the 
cloth  boots  of  her  own  manufacture,  with  a  laughing  look  in 
her  eyes  of  Scottish  blue,  she  quickly  retorted,  "You  had  better 
search  me  when  I  go  out  of  the  city — that  is  if  you  can  catch 
me.  In  our  part  of  the  world  we  have  to  wear  shoes  and  gloves 
like  these.  And  sir,  you  had  better  be  careful  for  I  have  a 
Yankee  sister  in  town." 

Her  breezy  air,  perhaps  the  covert  threat  implied  in  her 
claim  to  Northern  kindred,  had  the  effect  intended.  The  man 
of  war  was  placated.  Bending  down,  he  whispered:  "Little 
girl,  I  don't  believe  you  have  anything  contraband.     I  like  and 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 49 

trust  you,  and  will  take  you  at  once  to  your  sister's,  and  be- 
sides, I  have  a  fine  son  you  can  marry."  "Yes,"  replied  saucy 
Margaret;  "provided  some  good  Johnny  Reb  doesn't  shoot 
him."  The  daring  girl  felt  the  despatches  burn  in  her  hands 
like  coals  of  fire.  Outwardly  brave,  she  practised  her  coquet- 
tish tactics  and  the  procession  drove  on,  soon  to  pause  in  front 
of  her  sister's  house.  Eagerly  she  begged  her  escort  to  stop 
the  horses  a  moment  and,  without  pausing  for  his  helping 
hand,  so  fearful  was  she  that  the  wad  of  despatches  might  be 
detected,  jumped  to  the  ground  and  rushed  into  the  house, 
Miss  Horton  following.  Bewildered  by  her  sudden  flight,  the 
deserted  officer  cried  out,  "You  saucy  little  piece !  I  believe 
I'll  have  you  searched  anyhow,  for  now  I  think  of  it,  I  risk 
losing  my  stars  if  I  don't." 

By  this  time  the  parlor  had  been  reached.  The  girls 
darted  through  the  open  door,  in  breathless  haste  locked  it, 
then  in  a  trice  unlooping  their  quilted  skirts  with  Bragg's  pre- 
cious despatches  inside,  rolled  all  up  into  a  bundle  and  thrust 
it  up  the  chimney — the  open  fire-place  being  concealed  by  a 
screen.  No  longer  afraid  of  being  searched,  Margaret  de- 
murely opened  the  door  and  was  engaged  in  quite  a  lively  play 
of  accusation  and  recrimination  with  the  officer  when  her 
sister  walked  in  to  greet  her.  Being  vouched  for  by  one  so 
high  up  in  Yankee  confidence  was  sufficient.  The  suspicious 
Colonel  sloped  colors  and  saluted.  Henceforth  the  saucy  little 
rebel  was  safe. 

Margaret's  sister  and  husband  were  both  staunch  Confed- 
erates but,  through  stress  of  circumstance,  posed  as  friends  of 
the  Union.  Consequently  they  were  enabled  to  give  much  aid 
to  the  Southern  cause.  Mrs.  Smith  was  permitted  to  visit  the 
Horton  House — converted  by  the  Northern  invaders  into  a 
prison  for  Confederates — for  it  was  well  known  that  she  was 
a  Southern  woman  who,  despite  her  apparent  Union  proclivi- 
ties, must  have  friends  among  the  prisoners.  On  the  present 
occasion  word  had  come  from  Gen.  Forrest  requesting  her  aid 
in  behalf  of  a  certain  member  of  his  staff  recently  captured  and 
confined  in  the  Horton  House. 

Shortly  after,  Margaret  was  privileged  to  accompany  her 
sister  on  one  of  her  mysterious  prison  visits.     Before  leaving 


50 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

the  house  she  was  instructed  to  "do  as  I  do."  Mrs.  Smith  pre- 
sented a  pass  from  Col.  Hillyer,  the  provost-marshal,  per- 
mitting access  to  her  "cousin,"  a  young  captain  lately  im- 
prisoned. So  soon  as  the  guard  called  him  forward  she  ad- 
vanced cordially  saluting  him  as  "dear  cousin"  and  apparently 
gave  him  a  cousinly  kiss.  Margaret  remembered  her  orders 
and  did  the  same,  adding  in  pity  a  warm  embrace  for  a  kins- 
man found  in  so  pitiful  a  plight.  "Oh,  cousin,  you  look  sick," 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Smith,  whereupon  the  Captain  staggered  as 
if  in  severe  pain,  in  tremulous  tones  announcing  that  he  was 
"indeed  ill,  quite  ill,  but  immensely  glad  to  see  her."  Much 
mystified,  Margaret  listened  to  mutual  recollections  of  a  cer- 
tain old  Aunt  Sally  who  made  the  best  cornbread  ever  eaten, 
and  who  always  made  soup  in  her  cabin  and  brought  it  in  a 
broken  pitcher  to  any  one  who  was  sick.  This  last  feat  of 
memory  seemed  particularly  pleasing,  but  the  captain's  illness 
now  increased  so  alarmingly  that  the  sisters,  after  taking  a 
much-concerned  leave,  hastily  withdrew  and  the  guard  was 
summoned  to  assist  him  to  his  cot.  The  next  day  there  was 
quite  a  stir  and  audible  discontent  in  Mrs.  Smith's  kitchen. 
She  insisted  on  compounding  and  herself  baking  a  cornbread- 
pone,  also  pouring  some  of  the  family  soup  into  a  pitcher  with 
a  broken  mouth.  Bread  and  soup  were  arranged  on  a  tray 
and  carried  to  the  prison  by  a  servant,  Margaret  accompanying 
her  armed  with  a  pass  to  see  her  cousin.  The  Captain,  still 
confined  to  his  cot,  was  much  pleased  at  sight  of  the  food  sent 
him,  but  the  guard  rather  rudely  called  out  that  "it  was  queer 
eating  for  a  sick  man."  Margaret  explained  that  "he'd  like  it 
and  get  well  because  it  was  the  same  he  used  to  eat  at  home." 
Soon  she  left  her  cousin  to  his  homely  repast. 

The  following  afternoon,  as  six  by  the  clock  approached, 
Mrs.  Smith  proposed  a  walk  in  direction  of  the  prison.  On 
this  eventful  afternoon  the  sentry  paced  his  usual  distance  in 
front  of  the  prison  walls.  Margaret,  while  walking  briskly  and 
chatting  in  her  own  lively  way.  chanced  to  look  upwards  and 
so  dreadful  a  sight  met  her  eyes  she  gave  a  loud  piercing 
scream.  She  saw  a  man  dropping  from  one  of  the  upper  sto- 
ries— falling  to  the  ground,  as  she  thought,  to  meet  his  death. 
A  rough  push  from  her  sister,  and  an  impatient  order  "to  hush 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 51 

her  noise"  made  her  aware  that  she  had  done  something  amiss. 
The  sentry  in  alarm  drew  near  and  to  fix  his  attention  upon 
herself  she  fainted  dead  away.  Then,  reviving,  screamed  with 
all  the  strength  of  her  lungs  and  said  she  had  fainted  from  a 
sprained  ankle.  The  more  the  sentry  tried  to  calm  her  the 
more  unbearable  was  her  pain  and  the  tighter  she  clasped  his 
knees.  With  lightning  intuition  she  realized  that  it  was  a 
Confederate  prisoner  she  had  seen  coming  down  his  viewles.i 
stairway  of  wire,  and  that  her  sister  was  aiding  in  the  escape 
of  her  pseudo  cousin  the  captain.  At  whatever  cost  to  herself 
the  sentry  must  not  be  allowed  to  give  an  alarm. 

Providence  had  worked  his  deliverance  through  the  me- 
dium of  a  file  baked  and  conveyed  in  the  cornbread,  and  a  coil 
of  wire  concealed  in  the  cracked  pitcher  of  soup.  After  the 
war,  Margaret  learned  that  the  prisoner  was  wholly  a  stranger 
to  Mrs.  Smith,  but  that  Forrest  had  invoked  her  aid  in  freeing 
this  member  of  his  staff.  She  planned  the  method  and  means 
of  his  escape  and  gave  the  cues  which  he  was  quick-witted 
enough  to  recognize  and  follow  to  his  deliverance. 


52  WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 


A  TRUE  STORY. 

ON  Sunday  morning,  August  21,  1864,  Gen.  Nathan  B. 
Forrest,  with  about  1500  men  in  command,  starting 
from  Oxford,  Miss.,  made  his  memorable  raid  upon 
Memphis,  Tenn.  For  two  days  and  nights  his  men  were  in 
the  saddle,  riding  through  blinding  rains,  in  thick  darkness, 
stumbling  over  roads  heavy  with  mud,  and  swimming  creeks 
swollen  to  the  limit  of  their  banks.  They  rode  hard,  scarcely 
pausing  to  eat  their  scant  rations,  with  their  wet,  mud-clogged 
clothes  clinging  to  and  impeding  their  wearied  bodies.  At 
Hickhala  creek  and  Coldwater  river,  it  was  necessary  to  build 
rude  pontoon  bridges  lashed  together  with  grape  vines  for 
cables,  before  it  was  possible  for  them  to  cross.  But  obstacles 
made  the  steel  that  struck  out  fire  from  the  flint  of  this  magni- 
cent  leader's  nature,  and  from  that  of  the  iron-like  men  who 
rode  with  him.  Light-hearted  and  gay  as  if  going  to  a  revel, 
they  pushed  on  and,  while  it  was  yet  dark,  before  the  morning 
fairly  broke,  rode  in  silent,  steady  ranks  into  the  city — taking 
it  completely  by  surprise. 

Once  sure  of  possession  the  buglers,  as  if  seized  with  sud- 
den madness,  broke  loose,  sounding  the  shrill  charge  and  the 
men  with  yells  and  shouts  dashed  forward,  clattering  over  the 
streets  and  filling  the  air  with  so  outrageous  an  uproar  it  was 
enough  to  awake  the  dead.  It  woke  the  living  who  were 
asleep,  and  they  sprang  from  their  beds  dazed,  wondering  if  the 
foundations  of  the  world  had  crumbled  and  the  crash  of  doom 
had  caught  them.  Some  of  the  men  under  Capt.  AV.  B.  For- 
rest, a  younger  brother  of  the  General,  rode  their  horses  into 
the  rotunda  of  the  Gayoso  Hotel,  in  quick  search  for  Generals 
Hulbert  and  Washburn.  They  hunted  the  building  from  base- 
ment to  attic,  but  the  birds  were  wary  and  had  flown.  From 
dawn  until  noon,  Forrest  and  his  men  swept  the  city  like  a 
cyclone — only  a  bullet  carrying  death  could  stop  them.  Joy 
was  in  all  the  streets.  At  the  corners  stood  groups  frantically 
cheering  and  waving  hats  and  handkerchiefs ;  leaning  from 
windows  hastily  thrown  up  were  women  and  children  in  night 
deshabille,   who   fluttered   in   joyous   greeting  whatever   their 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 53 

hands  first  grasped,  and  made  the  air  vocal  with  cries  of  wel- 
come to  the  muddy  but  ever  dear  Johnny  Rebs.  One  lady,  an 
ardent  Confederate,  roused  from  her  sick  bed  by  the  confu- 
sion and  din,  rushed  upon  the  front  gallery.  On  catching  sight 
of  the  grand,  erect  figure  of  Gen.  Forrest  as  he  dashed  by,  she 
loosed  from  earth  and  trod  the  air !  Clutching  her  two-day-old 
infant  by  the  long  clothes  swathing  its  feet,  she  waved  it  tri- 
umphantly in  the  air  as  if  it  had  been  a  scarf  or  a  flag!  After 
dominating  Memphis  so  long  as  it  pleased  him — that  is  for 
several  hours — Gen.  Forrest  and  his  troop  leisurely  rode  off 
in  the  same  direction  whence  they  came,  escorting  a  caravan 
of  several  hundred  prisoners  of  war. 

At  the  time  of  this  raid  there  were  living  in  Memphis  a  cer- 
tain Mr.  Smith  and  his  wife — the  latter,  the  lady  who  figured 
in  the  above  incident  of  the  baby.  Circumstances  had  imposed 
upon  them  the  necessity  of  taking  the  oath  usually  exacted  of 
those  remaining  within  the  enemy's  lines.  But  the  observance 
of  an  oath  taken  under  compulsion  was  rarely  considered  obli- 
gatory by  the  party  compelled,  in  the  lax  days  of  the  Civil  War. 
Mr.  Smith  secretly  bought  and  shipped  ammunition,  guns,  etc., 
while  his  wife  continually  made  purchases  of  small  articles — 
medicines  at  different  drug  stores,  tea,  coffee,  pins,  needles,  etc. 
— and  smuggled  them  to  friends  in  the  Confederacy.  Having 
quilted  her  purchases  into  a  petticoat,  she  was  ready  for  a 
ride.  Her  husband  and  herself  were  fearless  on  horseback  and 
neither  fence  nor  ditch  could  stop  them.  In  the  early  morning 
or  late  evening  they  would  canter  down  the  main  road  leading 
out  from  Memphis  in  the  direction  of  the  little  stream  Non- 
connah.  Here  the  Federals  kept  a  strict  patrol  and  had  a 
guard  house — not  only  for  safe-keeping  such  prisoners  as  they 
caught  trying  to  enter  the  city,  but  also  for  searching  ladies 
suspected  of  dealing  in  contraband  of  war.  Mrs.  Smith's  horse 
had  been  trained  at  a  given  signal  to  run  away.  On  arriving 
at  the  guard  house,  Mr.  Smith  would  engage  the  officer  in 
pleasant  talk.  Presently,  his  wife's  horse  becoming  more  and 
more  restive,  would  suddenly  dash  forward,  vault  the  fence  and 
bear  its  rider  away  with  the  speed  of  the  wind.  The  objective 
point  was  an  old  stump  well  known  to  the  boys  in  gray.  Reach- 
ing it,  she  would  quickly  dismount,  remove  from  her  thick 


54 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

coils  of  hair  small  packages  of  drugs,  unloop  her  quilted  skirt 
stored  with  good  things  and  a  correspondence  that  might  not 
have  passed  muster  at  the  city  post  office.  Quickly  concealing 
all  within  the  stump,  she  would  spring  into  the  saddle  and  on 
her  mad  gallop  homeward  probably  meet  her  husband  and  an 
anxious  Federal  officer  coming  in  search  of  her. 

Mrs.  Smith's  young  sister,  Margaret  Drane,  after  six 
months'  sojourn  in  Dixie,  had  returned  to  make  her  home  for 
awhile  in  Memphis.  A  merry  girl  of  sixteen  with  a  piquant 
wit,  she  was  intensely  Confederate  in  her  patriotism,  and  her 
dislike  for  the  blue-coated  gentry  so  frequently  found  in  her 
sister's  parlors  was  often  marked  by  extreme  frankness.  Youth, 
laughing  blue  eyes  and  a  frolicsome,  even  though  pungent, 
tongue  make  a  charm  that  condones  all  differences  of  opinion — 
so  thought  the  Northern  General  John  Morgan,  the  provost 
marshal  Hillyer,  and  a  score  of  other  prominent  Federals  who 
greatly  enjoyed  provoking  her  spleen  by  narrations  of  Con- 
federate disasters.  They  felt  sure  that  the  recital  of  these 
reverses  would  be  sweet  music  in  the  ears  of  so  good  a  Unionist 
as  Mrs.  Smith,  and  it  was  to  them  as  nuts  to  a  squirrel  to 
tease  the  saucy,  pretty  little  termagant. 

The  Federal  officers  in  making  their  visits  usually  were 
entertained  in  the  front  parlor,  while  other  callers  assembled 
in  the  rear  room.  Young  Margaret's  voice  was  one  of  rare 
compass,  strength  and  sweetness.  Its  exercise  gave  her  a 
weapon  which  it  was  a  keen  delight  to  use  against  the  military 
oppressors  whose  presence,  though  odious,  she  had  to  endure. 
She  never  refused  to  sing  when  asked,  but  gave,  with  unre- 
pressed  fervor,  all  of  the  Confederate  songs  she  knew — and 
her  repertoire  was  a  rarely  full  one!  "Maryland,"  and  a  ver- 
sion of  Dixie,  more  defiant  than  rhythmical,  were  special  fa- 
vorites for  such  an  occasion  and  never  omitted.    One  verse  ran  : 

"Dixie  whipped  old  Yankee  Doodle 

Early  in  the  morning, 
And  Yankee  boys  better  look  out 

And  take  a  timely  warning." 

One  afternoon,  Mr.  Smith,  in  a  low  mysterious  whisper 
for  fear  of  listening  servants,  announced  to  his  wife  and  Mar- 
garet that,  through  the  connivance  of  their  guard,  he  had  ob- 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 55 

tained  for  eleven  Confederate  prisoners  the  privilege  of  visit- 
ing them  at  a  late  hour  that  evening.  This  guard,  of  course, 
had  been  heavily  bribed  both  with  money  and  champagne,  to 
allow  them  to  leave  the  prison  and  remain  out  until  10 :30  that 
night.  Mr.  Smith  and  the  eleven  prisoners  gave  their  word 
that  the  return  would  be  at  the  stipulated  hour.  So  soon  as 
darkness  fell  the  prisoners  came  in  escorted  by  their  Yankee 
guard.  In  making  ready  for  their  reception,  the  shutters  of 
the  back  parlor  had  been  closed  and  thick  damask  curtains 
dropped  to  prevent  even  a  glimmer  of  light  from  being  caught 
on  the  outside,  but  to  ensure  safety,  one  window  was  left  open 
and  shielded  by  heavy  drapery.  In  case  of  need,  it  would  serve 
as  an  exit  upon  a  narrow  alley  that  ran  between  the  house  and 
a  high  board  fence.  This  alley  opened  upon  the  street.  All 
of  these  precautions  taken,  wine  and  cake — luxuries  almost 
forgotten  by  a  Southern  soldier — were  brought  in  to  cheer 
both  the  inner  and  outer  man.  As  friendly  eyes  looked  into 
each  other  there  was  much  quiet,  serious  talk  in  low  tones — 
too  low  for  Margaret,  or  the  guard  upon  whom  she  was  mis- 
chievously practising  her  witcheries — to  catch  or  understand. 
Thus  pleasantly  occupied,  time  sped  for  half  an  hour  when, 
suddenly,  the  jangle  of  the  door  bell  jarred  the  quiet.  All  rose 
and  looked  at  each  other  in  dismay.  Mrs.  Smith  kept  her  com- 
posure, and  with  a  warning  to  the  young  conspirator,  Mar- 
garet, to  "hold  the  fort,"  hastened  to  enquire  into  the  interrup- 
tion— a  premonition  of  evil  made  her  feel  the  presence  of 
visitors  before  seeing  them.  On  opening  the  door,  behold,  the 
Federal  Gen.  Morgan  and  his  staff  bent  on  passing  a  social 
evening ! 

In  the  meantime,  all  was  quiet  activity  in  the  back  parlor, 
the  curtain  was  lifted  from  the  open  window  and  first  the 
white-faced  guard,  then,  one  by  one,  the  prisoners  stealthily 
dropped  into  the  alley  below.  Margaret's  spirits  rose  to  the 
occasion.  At  first  echo  of  the  bell,  she  had  noiselessly  turned 
the  key  in  the  door.  The  eleven  men  must  get  away  and  to 
cover  their  retreat — though  her  heart  was  going  pit-a-pat  for 
the  boys  in  grey  stealing  off  in  the  darkness — she  lifted  her 
voice  in  rollicking  strains  of  Jim  Crow,  Dan  Tucker  and  all  the 
noisy  plantation  songs  she  could  recall.    At  each  remonstrance 


56 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

from  her  sister  in  the  hall  as  to  her  madcap  conduct,  she  would 
break  out  into  a  higher,  more  jubilant  stave  and,  with  a  chair 
for  a  partner  dance  a  jig  or  a  few  capers  of  the  Highland  Fling 
— all  to  gain  time. 

Saucy,  courageous,  quick-witted  Margaret !  Her  voice  had 
the  lilt  of  a  mocking-bird  and  she  executed  variations,  tremu- 
los,  spirited  bravuras,  extravaganzas  of  melody  that  would 
have  won  her  encores  on  the  stage.  At  last  came  the  turn  of 
No.  ii.  He  slid  out,  let  the  curtain  fall,  then,  crouching  with 
his  companions  in  the  darkness  of  the  alley,  all  waited  for  the 
hour  of  return  to  the  hated  prison.  Our  song-bird  relished 
intensely  this  outwitting  of  the  Yankee  marplots  in  the  hall. 
Continuing  her  bravuras  and  throwing  a  footstool  across  the 
room  with  a  bang  to  increase  the  noise,  she  quickly  gathered 
up  the  decanter  and  glasses  used  in  their  small  banquet  and 
pitched  them  out  of  the  window — let  us  hope  the  crowns  of 
her  soldier  guests  escaped  being  cut  or  cracked.  Then  with 
a  hop,  skip  and  jump  and  a  successful  effort  to  obtain  upper 
"C,"  she  unlocked  and  threw  open  the  door,  her  cheeks  aflame 
from  exertion,  but  full  of  dimpling  smiles  and  arch  courtesy 
of  manner.  In  response  to  questioning  from  both  sister  and 
wondering  Federal  visitors  as  to  why  she  had  kept  the  door 
locked  and  created  so  fearful  a  racket,  she  merrily  answered 
that  her  "old  Johnny  Reb  sweetheart  had  come  to  see  her,  and 
she  was  so  glad  to  see  him  it  had  turned  her  head." 

If  Gen.  Morgan  and  his  splendidly  uniformed  staff  squinted 
at  the  sofa  as  they  passed,  to  see  if  Johnny  Reb  was  really  there 
or  had  misgivings  that  something  was  below  the  surface,  they 
gave  no  sign,  but  yielded  to  the  fascinations  of  the  charming 
young  rebel,  who,  while  brave,  was  never  more  so  than  in 
those  moments  of  suspense  when  eleven  lives  trembled  on  the 
balance  of  discovery. 

Had  the  guard  been  surprised  in  this  escapade,  death 
would  have  been  the  penalty  as  a  soldier.  True  to  their  oath, 
the  eleven  prisoners  were  in  their  bunks  at  the  prescribed  hour. 

A  week  later  they  escaped.  It  is  not  impossible  to  believe 
that  the  ways  and  means  were  planned  on  the  night  they  ran 
the  risk  of  capture,  while  a  rebel  girl  sang  herself  hoarse  to 
protect  them. 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE  57 


We  take  our  leave  of  this  true  type  of  the  Southern  girl 
of  the  war  period — high  spirited,  ever  loyal,  inventive,  cour- 
ageous. It  may  be  of  interest  to  know  that  our  merry  young 
heroine  at  sixteen  was  the  bride  of  a  gallant  officer,  who  bore 
in  his  scarred  body  the  certificate  of  honorable  service,  and 
that  before  the  furling  of  our  flag  at  Appamatox  she  cradled  a 
young  Confederate  in  her  maternal  arms  and  rejoiced  that  a 
man  child  was  born  into  the  world. 


58  WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 


DAVIDSON'S  RAID. 

(Note. — Data  for  this  paper  furnished  by  Mrs.  J.  R. 
Dicks.) 

THE  pleasant  little  town  of  Greensburg,  in  St.  Helena 
Parish,  Louisiana,  like  Osyka,  Clinton,  and  Camp 
Moore,  was  the  scene  of  a  series  of  Federal  raids  under 
Montgomery,  Lee  and  Davidson,  in  the  year  1864.  Starting 
from  Baton  Rouge,  they  were  planned,  and  fatally  well  exe- 
cuted, for  the  purpose  of  diverting  attention  from  Sherman 
when  he  set  out  to  cut  the  Confederacy  in  two,  by  his  deadly 
march  through  Georgia  to  the  sea. 

The  residence  of  the  genial  Sheriff,  Mr.  W.  C,  was  situ- 
ated on  a  pleasant  slope  of  green  a  mile  out  from  Greensburg. 
Unfortunately  it  was  in  the  line  of  advance  of  Davidson's  raid. 
On  a  memorable  day  in  November,  just  after  the  dinner  hour 
of  noon,  the  voice  of  the  yard-boy,  Henry,  pitched  to  a  sharp 
key  from  excitement  and  fear,  was  heard  calling:  "Marse 
Billy,  the  Yankees  is  coming!"  Scarcely  had  the  alarm  been 
sounded  than  a  regiment  of  blue-coated  cavalry  out  on  a  raid 
came  dashing  up.  A  General  Davidson,  styling  himself  a  Vir- 
ginian, was  in  command — a  small,  wiry,  dark-visaged  man  who 
looked  as  if  he  might  hail  from  the  Levant  rather  than  from 
the  genial  mother  of  statesmen  and  presidents.  One  thousand 
strong  the  raiders  filed  into  the  entrance  yard,  or  what  was 
called  the  "Staump."  This  was  inclosed  by  an  old  time  worm 
fence,  built  with  stake  and  rider — an  inclosure  that  served  as 
a  barrier  to  the  closer,  more  reserved  yard  around  the  com- 
fortable mansion  of  two  stories.  With  much  tramping  of 
hoofs,  champing  of  bits,  neighing  and  prancing,  the  troop  of 
horse  rode  in,  suspiciously  alert  for  the  whiz  of  a  rebel  bullet. 
The  raid  had  for  one  of  its  objects  the  ferreting  out  and  cap- 
turing of  such  Confederate  soldiers  as  might  be  at  home  en 
furlough — so  at  any  moment  they  might  come  across  what 
they  were  seeking.  The  officers,  quickly  dismounting,  teth- 
ered their  beasts  to  the  fence  and  issued  sharp,  rapid  orders  to 
the  men  for  the  niafht's  bivouac. 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 59 


At  once,  as  lords  of  the  Manor,  they  went  to  the  cribs  aiid 
helped  themselves  to  the  corn  by  armfuls,  expeditiously  shuck- 
ing the  ears  and  feeding  their  jaded  horses.  Then  they  mut- 
tered over  the  premises,  a  veritable  swarm  of  locusts,  seeking 
what  they  might  devour. 

In  the  meantime  Henry  was  not  idle.  The  creeks  were 
dry,  for  the  autumn  rains  had  not  yet  set  in  to  flush  them.  Into 
their  many  hollows,  overgrown  with  the  wild  muscadine  and 
grape,  he  hastily  drove  his  master's  horses.  Unless  they  had 
gone  down  into  the  depths  of  the  earth  they  could  not  have 
been  more  securely  hidden.  Here  they  subsisted  on  the  vines 
and  reedy  herbage  growing  on  the  sides  of  the  ravines  so 
long  as  the  raid  lasted  and  the  raiders  were  never  the  wiser. 

Towards  evening,  General  Davidson  came  to  the  house  and 
demanded  a  private  room  for  the  surgeon  of  his  regiment.  He 
was  suffering,  so  the  General  stated,  from  some  acute  disorder 
of  his  eyes  and  seclusion  was  necessary  to  his  health  and 
repose.  His  arrogant  manner  seemed  to  say :  "Willy-nilly,  he 
shall  have  it."  There  was  but  one  room  that  could  by  any 
means  be  placed  at  his  service,  and  that  was  already  occupied 
by  Miss  Josephine  R — ,  a  young,  flaxen-haired  slip  of  a  girl  on 
a  visit  to  the  family.  As  General  Davidson  was  so  peremptory 
in  his  demand  and  had  the  brute  power  to  enforce  it,  Mr.  C* 
told  him  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  eject  a  lady  from 
her  room  for  any  man,  sick  or  well ;  that  Miss  R's  father  was 
an  Englishman  and  she  had  papers  bearing  the  Consular  seal 
to  prove  it.  However,  he  would  refer  the  matter  to  her  for 
decision. 

General  Davidson  was  misled  by  the  slight  form  that  stood 
erect  before  him.  Tall  and  slender,  with  a  mass  of  pale  gold 
hair,  she  was  no  Lydia  Languish,  but  quite  capable  of  proving 
her  fiery  Saxon  and  Norman  descent.  The  Federal  General 
renewed  his  command  with  the  airy  insolence  of  one  with 
whom  "might  made  right"  and  the  girl  before  him  was  only 
a  roseleaf  to  be  blown  away.  His  suspicious  question :  "If 
English  what  interest  could  she  have  in  what  concerned  Amer- 
icans only?"  put  her  pride  at  once  on  the  defensive.  No 
"tranced  summer  calm"  was  hers.  The  color  flamed  into  her 
fair  cheeks   and  the  silky,   curving  eye-lashes   were  lifted  in 


60 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

haughty  surprise.  Clearly,  but  with  a  certain  timbre  of  voice 
that  denoted  a  danger  spark,  she  informed  the  General  that 
"her  father  was  an  Englishman  from  a  family  of  no  mean  de- 
scent and  she  had  the  wit  to  appreciate  the  advantage  and 
protection  his  English  rights  afforded  her,  but  that,  Southern 
born,  she  loved  and  was  proud  of  the  land  of  her  birth.  She 
was  under  the  shield  of  the  British  flag  and  dared  him  to 
molest  her." 

Upon  hearing  this  from  her  own  lips,  the  brave  General 
temporized  and  putting  aside  his  power  to  compel,  made  an 
appeal  to  her  humane  disposition  in  behalf  of  an  unfortunate 
sufferer.  "Indeed,"  exclaimed  the  irritated  girl,  "and  where  are 
you  from  and  who  are  you  that  I  should  put  myself  out  of  my 
room  to  serve  you?" 

"General  W.  J.  Davidson  of  Southern  Virginia,"  was  the 
somewhat  hesitating  response.  Miss  R's  blue  eyes  flashed 
ominously.  There  was  no  culling  of  polite  phrases,  no  mincing 
of  words,  but  they  rolled  fast  as  if  the  fact  burned  her  lips 
in  telling  it.  "Then  you  are  a  renegade  and  I  would  not  tell  it. 
I  am  not  interested  either  in  you  or  your  sick  surgeon.  Why 
should  I  be?  In  a  war  for  Southern  rights,  you — claiming  to 
be  a  Virginian — come  down  here  and  fight  Louisianians  on 
their  own  soil !     No,  I  have  no  sympathy  with  such !" 

This  was  rather  a  saucy  bit  of  defiance  on  the  part  of  a 
young  Southern  girl  to  an  unscrupulous  officer  of  the  enemy, 
but  it  was  the  spirit  born  of  the  time.  When  a  Federal  aroused 
the  resentment  of  a  Dixie  girl  of  the  war  days  it  broke  out 
bright  and  scorching  as  the  flash  from  gunpowder.  The  ren- 
egade Virginian  dared  not  annoy  one  guarded  by  the  British 
lion.  He  remembered  that  Butler  had  tried  it  in  New  Orleans 
but  with  ill  success.  Later,  Miss  R — ,  deeming  discretion  the 
better  part  of  valor,  voluntarily  surrendered  her  room  and 
joined  the  family  party  of  ladies  and  children  in  a  more  distant 
part  of  the  house. 

The  officers  of  the  regiment  made  headquarters  of  a  large 
two-roomed  building  in  the  yard  erected  early  in  the  war  for 
the  entertainment  and  comfort  of  passing  Confederate  soldiers. 
The  rank  and  file  made  themselves  happy  for  three  days  and 
two  nights  by  using,  like  a  band  of  roving  gipsies,  the  fences 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 61 

around  the  cotton  fields  for  their  camp  fires  and  in  shooting 
pigs  and  fowls  and  stealing  all  the  provissions  they  could  lay- 
hands  on. 

In  those  crucial  days,  Miss  R — sat  on  the  gallery,  a  Maid 
of  Astolat,  with  the  "Richmond  Enquirer"  for  her  magic  mir- 
ror in  which  she  saw  the  world  go  round.  If  one  of  the  raiding 
officers  approached  her  for  conversation,  she  would  regale 
him  with  accounts  of  the  good  thrashing  Dick  Taylor  had 
given  the  Federals  in  North  Louisiana,  or  news  of  Confederate 
victories  in  Virginia.  With  daring  assurance  she  narrated  all 
for  their  benefit  with  many  a  spicy  comment. 

Mr.  C — had  a  valuable  blooded  horse  which  he  was  break- 
ing into  service  from  its  freakish  colt  life.  Expressing  his 
anxiety  about  the  safety  of  his  animal  to  his  young  friend,  Miss 
R — ,she  laughingly  told  him  to  "lock  Pompey  in  the  smoke- 
house and  give  her  the  key.  She'd  take  care  of  him."  Poor  Pom- 
pey found  the  change  from  his  grass  grown  pastures  and  clear, 
sweet  air  to  the  odors  of  saltpetre  and  smoke  and  the  carcasses 
of  butchered  swine  to  companion  his  solitude,  too  great  for  en- 
durance. As  the  hours  wore  on,  he  grew  restless  and  showed 
his  disquiet  by  a  continuous  tramping  and,  in  the  semi-light, 
upsetting  whatever  he  stumbled  against.  His  performance 
had  reached  the  climax  when  a  little  lieutenant — that,  to  use  a 
homely  word  "piruted"  everywhere,  nosing  into  everything — 
passed  the  smokehouse  and  caught  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs 
exercising  in  a  rather  unusual  stable. 

Approaching  Miss  R — ,  as  she  sat  with  eyes  intent  upon 
"the  Enquirer,"  he  announced,  as  though  fearing  contradiction. 
There's  a  horse  in  that  smokehouse."  "I  should'nt  wonder" — 
was  her  demure  reply.  "Then  the  door  must  be  opened  and  1 
must  have  it.  Get  me  the  key" — he  ordered  with  military 
brusqueness.  Miss  R — was  quite  as  laconic  as  he.  "You  can't 
get  it" — was  all  she  said  and  turned  the  key  over  in  her  pocket 
to  assure  herself  that  it  was  really  in  her  possession. 

It  is  said  that  a  gentle  hand  may  lead  an  elephant  with  a 
hair,  but  we  suspect  that  in  this  instance  there  was  a  more 
positive  quality  than  gentleness  which  challenged  the  lieuten- 
ant's admiration.  He  looked  at  her  keenly  for  a  moment,  and 
seeing  that  there  was   no   quailing  in  the   clear  steady  eyes 


62 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

lifted  to  his,  dismissed  further  reference  to  the  imprisoned 
Pompey  and  asked :  "If  I  were  to  give  you  a  horse,  you  little 
wasp,  would  you  accept  it?" 

Miss  R — was  at  once  interested.  "But  you  would  only 
give  me  some  broken-down  barebones.  Yet  if  you  did,  I  would 
make  it  well  and  then  give  it  to  some  good  Confederate  who 
had  none.  Try  me" — she  saucily  added.  "Well  you  are  a  hornet 
as  well  as  a  wasp"  was  the  nettled  lieutenant's  reply.  "How- 
ever, I'll  be  as  good  as  my  word."  When  the  Raiders  once 
more  took  up  the  line  of  march  he  stopped  long  enough  to 
call  to  a  young  darkey  staring  open-mouthed  at  the  dashing 
cavalryman :  "Hello,  Sambo !  you  see  that  bay  horse  by  the 
fence?  Catch  him  and  take  him  to  the  young  lady  on  the 
gallery — the  one  with  light  hair — and  tell  her,  because  she  was. 
honest  and  brave  the  Yankee  lieutenant  sends  it  to  her  with 
his  compliments." 

Before  the  last  trooper  disappeared  up  the  long  country 
road,  Miss  R.  was  in  the  yard  hovering  around  her  unlooked- 
for  acquistion.  With  her  penknife  she  bled  the  half- foundered 
animal  and  then — think  of  the  bravery  of  this  Confederate  girl, 
oh,  dainty  ladies  of  the  present  day ! — with  her  own  hands, 
aided  by  the  cook,  forced  down  its  throat  a  drench  of  alum  and 
cornmeal.  The  animal  recovered  its  strength  and  good  looks, 
but  as  that  part  of  the  country  was  in  the  hands  of  guerillas 
and  raiders,  the  expected  Johnny  Reb  did  not  receive  the  prom- 
ised prize. 

No  captured  Confederates  repaid  the  raiders  on  Mr.  C's 
plantation.  After  killing  all  the  stock,  emptying  the  corn-cribs 
and  sweeping  the  place  clean  of  provisions  they  withdrew, 
packing  off  sacks  of  potatoes  and  such  plunder  as  their  stall- 
fed  horses  could  carry.  General  Davidson  forced  Mr.  C.  to 
guide  his  troop  through  the  hostile  region.  Once  assured  of 
the  safety  of  himself  and  command,  he  permitted  him  to  return 
home. 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE  63 


A  RAMBLING  TALK  OF  RICHMOND. 

ABOUT  the  Confederate  Dead  Letter  Office  in  Richmond, 
Virginia,  was  an  air  of  mystery  that,  to  the  young  and 
impressionable  girls  employed  therein,  made  it  quite  an 
interesting  place,  despite  its  gloomy  appellation.  There  was 
none  of  the  bustling  activity  of  life  as  seen  in  the  upper  Bureau 
of  the  Department,  but  the  work  was  carried  on  in  sedate 
quiet,  and  unconsciously,  with  lowered  tones  of  voice.  As  if 
to  accentuate  its  mortuary  atmosphere,  a  skeleton  dangled 
from  the  wall  opposite  the  entrance,  and  daily  seemed  to  greet 
the  incomer  with  a  sardonic  "Remember  to  die."  It  was  said 
to  be  a  part  of  the  gruesome  furniture  of  a  doctor's  office  left 
for  safekeeping  on  the  day  he  went  forth  to  battle  for  his  coun- 
try. In  that  strange  winter  of  1864-65,  Life  cheerily  hob- 
nobbed with  Death,  so  there  was  nothing  incongruous  in  work- 
ing under  the  shadow  of  his  stern,  forbidding  effigy.  Judge 
Reagan  was  the  Postmaster  General,  but  as  he  rarely  favored 
the  small,  dark  office  with  his  kindly  presence,  its  supervision 
was  turned  over  to  his  assistant  and  representative.  This  dig- 
nified old  gentleman  was  a  renowned  LL.  D.  of  Georgetown, 
eminent  for  his  classical  attainments  and  grand,  Olympian 
presence.  He  held  genial  sway  over  a  limited  corps,  consist- 
ing of  two  young  girls  and  a  sad-eyed  member  of  the  Depart- 
mental Battalion  who  was  liable  for  service  in  defence  of  the 
city  any,  and  every,  hour  of  the  twenty-four.  The  work  from 
9  a.  m.  to  3  p.  m.  was  simple — merely  to  open  and  inspect  the 
contents  of  letters  that,  failing  to  reach  their  destination,  had 
been  stamped  "Dead."  But  it  must  be  confessed  that,  for 
youth,  it  was  depressing  constantly  to  be  confronted  by  that 
sinister  word. 

To  the  erudite  gentleman  who  graced  the  head  of  the 
table  were  referred  all  perplexing  problems  found  in  the  mail- 
bags,  such  as  letters  that  seemed  to  indicate  a  treasonable  cor- 
respondence between  spies  in  the  city  and  their  Northern 
accomplices  outside ;  or  others  written  in  cryptic  characters 
of  dead  languages,  or  any  of  the  Latin  tongues — it  was  all  one 
to  his  polyglot  mind. 


64 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

Of  the  two  employes  who  "cheese-tasted"  the  text  of  let- 
ters, one,  a  lady  of  strongly  Semitic  face,  was  reported  to  be 
not  only  a  faultless  singer  of  oratorios,  but  also  a  writer  for 
the  city  press ;  the  other,  a  slender,  short-haired  girl,  was  one 
whose  grand-sires,  it  was  said,  shared  the  blood  of  Rupert  of 
the  Rhine. 

On  the  table  stood  two  large  flat  baskets.  One  was  a 
receptacle  for  coin,  bills,  checks,  stamps ;  to  the  second  was 
allotted  the  miscellaneous  findings,  that  were  as  varied  as  the 
world  is  wide.  In  this  old  charnel  house  of  the  heart  and 
mind  was  a  curious  and  pathetic  assortment  of  wares  that 
floated  from  channels  all  over  the  country,  and  even  from 
across  seas.  While  non-intercourse  between  North  and  South 
was  a  military  fact  enforced  at  point  of  the  bayonet,  the  pass- 
port system  made  it  a  fiction  and  Richmand,  through  blockade- 
running,  at  intervals  was  still  in  touch  with  Paris  and  London, 
and  not  only  letters,  but  the  vanities  of  the  fashion  world 
sometimes  crept  in.  At  this  far  day,  the  contents  of  the  baskets 
would  prove  of  little  interest,  but  two  bits  of  flotsam  always 
seem  to  separate  from  the  general  wreckage  and  stand  apart 
when  memory  goes  back  to  those  days.  One  was  the  portrait 
of  a  young  Creole  officer  inscribed  in  passionate  French  to  one 
who  was  "tres  chere,  chere  toujours" ;  the  other  was  a  tress  of 
brown  hair  knotted  with  blue  ribbon  and  inclosed  in  a  fair, 
unwritten  sheet  of  paper  white  as  the  soul  of  the  donor.  Though 
mute,  doubtless  it  had  a  voice  for  one  who  knew  its  meaning. 

And  so,  conning  these  elegies  of  the  heart,  the  hours 
slipped  away  until  at  3  p.  m.  the  courtly  Professor  tapped  his 
silver  snuff-box  and,  watch  in  hand,  announced:  "Ladies,  we 
will  adjourn  until  tomorrow."  Spirits  rebounded  when  that 
storehouse  of  the  dead  was  left  behind  and,  emerging  from 
its  gloom  once  more  shared  the  life  and  genial  sunshine  of  the 
streets.  There  is  a  droll  ring  in  the  fact  that  these  girls,  in 
making  their  way  over  the  pavements  of  the  hilly  city,  kept  a 
sharp  lookout  for  such  pins  as  might  have  fallen  and  been 
lost  by  the  wayside.  Those  indispensable  little  adjuncts  of  a 
lady's  toilette  were  rare  and  costly  in  the  war  days.  The  sup- 
ply came  from  Nassau,  brought  in  by  the  blockade-runners, 
and  were  sold  at  $40  a  paper.     Necessity  made  the  girls  of 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 65 

Dixie  quite  practical,  so,  whenever  a  pin  showed  itself  in  the 
sunlight,  it  was  regarded  as  treasure-trove  and  quickly  picked 
up. 

Once  at  home  came  the  dinner — where  it  came  from  was 
the  daily  surprise  of  life.  Sometimes  it  consisted  only  of  a 
large  platter  of  newly-dug  goobers  or  peanuts,  boiled  in  salt 
water,  but  always  sauced  with  a  wondrous  appetite — in  that 
dour  time  never  lacking  in  Richmond.  Thrice-blessed  was  the 
household  so  lucky  as  to  have  a  country  friend.  An  angel  of 
relief  she  came  in  with  a  basket  of  vegetables — generally  mus- 
tard greens — in  one  hand,  covered  maybe  with  apple  blossoms 
to  take  off  its  sordidness,  and  bending  under  the  weight  of  a 
big  jug  of  buttermilk.  What  luxury  and  feasting  for  the  next 
few  days  !  What  visions  of  savory  dumplings  with  the  greens, 
to  say  nothing  of  a  left-over  for  salad !  But  oh,  the  eternal, 
dried,  black-eyed  pea  whether  in  porridge  or  soup,  baked  or 
boiled,  ever  the  same  villainous  comestible  that  made  one 
weary  of  going  to  the  table !  The  only  dish  that  equaled  it 
in  atrocity  was  the  stir-about  of  fried  liver  and  rice !  But  the 
day  was  marked  with  a  white  stone,  when,  in  the  gloomy 
autumn  days,  friends  sent  a  bushel  of  hickory  nuts,  a  few  tart 
apples,  or  a  quart  or  two  of  ripe  persimmons.  In  these  days 
of  plenty,  it  is  hard  to  realize  what  a  gastronomic  treat  was 
afforded  by  that  wild,  rough  fruit,  but  it  was  welcome  change 
from  "peas-hot  and  peas-cold,"  so  the  Richmond  starvelings 
thought  them  delicious,  gave  thanks,  and  eating,  cared  not  for 
an  invitation  to  the  Queen's  table. 

In  that  ever  to  be  remembered  year  of  1865,  in  the  warm, 
luminous  mist  of  early  March,  the  peach  trees  on  Clay  Street 
blossomed.  The  pink  shower  of  bloom — so  unusual  for  the 
season  and  so  lovely,  coming  at  a  time  when  hearts  were  so 
heavy — was  taken  by  the  young  and  hopeful  as  an  augury  of 
good  for  our  Cause.  But  alas!  for  all  our  stout  hearts,  the 
starvation  diet  began  to  let  its  fine  work  be  traced  in  the  pale 
cheek  and  deeply  shadowed  eyes  and,  for  many,  beauty  had 
lost  its  joy.  The  Treasury  notes  had  become  of  so  little  value 
that  it  was  a  common  saying  on  the  streets  of  Richmond  that 
you  went  to  market  with  your  money  in  a  basket,  and  brought 
back  your  purchases  in  your  pocket-book.     The  real  heroes 


66 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

and  heroines  of  those  days  starved  patiently,  with  dignity  and 
courage.  Only  extortioners  and  speculators  could  buy  butter 
at  $20  per  pound,  chickens  at  $50  apiece,  and  flour  at  $1,000 
a  barrel.  But  whatever  their  privations,  the  Daughters  of  the 
South  never  wavered  in  their  two-fold  faith  in  God  and  Lee. 
They  reasoned:  "If  the  fortunes  of  war  force  our  armies  from 
Richmond,  the  farther  South  is  still  Dixie  and  we  can  suffer 
and  fight  until  we  conquer."  As  to  Northern  domination,  or 
Southern  surrender,  none  ever  dreamed  of  the  possibility  of 
either. 

The  Confederate  woman  was  a  "praying  woman" — else 
she  could  not  have  lived  and  endured  so  nobly.  Bravely  she 
wore  her  "Iron  Cross,"  graven  not  by  the  artificer  in  metal,  but 
fashioned  by  Sorrow;  not  on  her  breast,  but  deep  in  her  heart 
where  the  eye  of  God  alone  rested  upon  it.  No  sword  in  hand, 
no  laurel  wreath,  no  classic  negligee  for  her  sculptured  ideal. 
She  was  no  Amazon,  but  a  loving,  modest  woman.  Upon  a 
background  of  blood  and  death,  she  rises  the  vision  of  a  gentle, 
yet  steadfast,  white  angel  brooding  over  the  objects  of  her 
love,  with  eyes  ever  bent  upon  the  pages  of  an  open  Bible. 
Holy  pages !  that  made  her  the  ministering  angel  she  was, 
shining  and  moving  like  those  above. 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 67 

A  WOMAN  OF  THE  SIXTIES. 

(Compiled  from  Reminiscences  of  Mrs.  L.  C.  Amy.) 

DURING  the  early  part  of  May,  1863,  in  the  city  of  New 
Orleans,  an  iron-clad  oath,  as  it  was  called,  was  issued 
by  General  Butler  which  ordered  that  every  man  who 
had  not  already  taken  the  oath  to  the  Union  should  take  this 
terrible  oath,  within  ten  or  fifteen  days  or  be  sent  to  the  Con- 
federacy as  a  "registered  enemy."  The  oath  was  so  prepos- 
terous, that  no  Southern  person  could  take  it  without  perjur- 
ing himself  dreadfully.  My  husband  had  belonged  to  the 
Home  Guards  and  could  not.  A  party  of  about  seventy  per- 
sons, including  my  husband,  myself  and  three  small  children, 
left  New  Orleans  about  May  20th  on  a  schooner  so  crowded 
that  there  was  hardly  standing  room.  Instead  of  making  the 
trip  to  Pascagoula  in  about  two  days,  contrary  winds  made  it 
six,  and  a  severe  storm  came  up  which  put  us  in  great  danger. 
We  camped  at  Pascagoula  a  week  or  more,  waiting  for  trans- 
portation to  Mobile.  The  place  was  crowded  with  refugees — 
a  miserable  lot  indeed ! 

After  reaching  Mobile,  we  found  the  city  overflowing  with 
refugees  and  it  was  hard  to  get  any  kind  of  shelter.  We  se- 
cured a  dilapidated  old  place,  and  two  camp  stools  with  two 
single  mattresses  we  had  used  on  the  schooner  comprised  our 
stock  of  furniture.  Of  course  we  slept  on  the  floor  and  I  used 
to  look  back  at  our  home  we  had  left  as  a  palace !  My  husband 
at  once  joined  a  battery  in  Mobile. 

I  found  a  friend  here  whom  I  had  known  in  New  Orleans, 
whose  husband  had  been  ordered  to  the  front  before  he  could 
make  suitable  arrangements  for  her.  So  I  brought  her  to  my 
own  poor  home  where  her  babe,  sixteen  months  old,  sickened 
and  died.  There  was  no  direct  communication  with  my  hus- 
band at  his  battery,  so  it  was  certainly  the  hand  of  God  that 
brought  him  to  us  in  our  terrible,  dilemma.  Through  the  Lou- 
isiana Relief  Committee  he  secured  the  burial  of  the  little 
dear.  Some  time  after,  my  two  youngest  children  were  taken 
ill,  and  I  felt  I  would  raise  heaven  and  earth  to  get  away, 
fearing  they,  too,  might  die.     I  feared  the  military  authorities 


68 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

might  think  my  husband  wanted  to  leave,  so  I  went  myself  to 
see  Colonel  Denis,  the  Provost  Marshal,  and  told  him  the 
children  and  myself  were  a  great  disadvantage  to  Mr.  Amy, 
and  that  his  anxiety  for  us  might  prevent  his  doing  his  full 
duty.  Col.  Denis  was  of  New  Orleans,  and  treated  me  with 
the  greatest  courtesy  and  promised  me  a  pass  through  the 
lines.  After  waiting  two  weeks,  I  heard  that  the  schooner  to 
take  me  was  at  Pascagoula.  My  belongings  were  all  arranged 
to  leave,  but  it  was  very  difficult  to  get  word  to  my  husband 
and  I  felt  that  I  must  see  him,  as  it  might  be  a  final  parting.  I 
went  to  the  wharf  where  the  boat  came  from  the  battery  to  get 
their  meat,  and  found  one  just  leaving.  I  tied  a  card  addressed 
to  my  husband  to  the  leg  of  one  of  the  beeves,  which  he  re- 
ceived, and  came  right  over  and  procured  a  wagon  with  an 
old  negro  driver  to  take  me  to  Pascagoula.  Upon  reaching 
Pascagoula,  it  was  only  to  find  that  the  boat  had  just  left  two 
hours  before  for  New  Orleans.  I  felt  dazed  and  did  not  know 
what  to  do.  Finally,  I  told  the  driver  to  take  me  to  an  old 
hotel  where  I  knew  refugees  had  camped,  for  I  was  not  afraid, 
and  knew  that  I  had  'bedding  and  enough  food  to  last  awhile. 
My  dear  children  know  to  this  day  what  a  coward  I  am,  but 
nothing  counted  then.  It  turned  out  there  was  one  man  alone 
in  the  house,  and  when  I  saw  him,  I  knew  I  couldn't  stay  there. 
So  I  went  on  to  dear  Mrs.  Dodson's  house — a  place  that  I 
feared  was  too  expensive  for  me,  but  she  received  me  like  a 
daughter. 

The  battle  of  Chickamauga  had  recently  been  fought,  and 
the  mothers  had  obtained  passes  in  New  Orleans  to  go  to  their 
wounded  and  dying  sons  and  husbands — many  of  whom  were 
numbered  with  the  dead  before  they  reached  them.  I  was  re- 
ceived like  a  dear  friend  by  all.  Oh,  what  a  strong  bond  of 
sympathy  existed  between  all  those  poor  women  whose  hus- 
hands  were  in  the  army !  A  number  of  ladies  had  come  from 
all  parts  of  the  Confederacy  to  get  a  flag-of-truce  scPTooner  to 
New  Orleans.  What  a  strange  set  they  were !  One  poor 
woman  died  two  weeks  after  coming  and  was  buried  under  the 
pine  trees.  I  was  with  her  the  greater  part  of  the  time  and 
when  she  breathed  her  last.  The  doctors  said  she  died  of 
consumption,  but  I  knew  it  was  of  a  broken  heart. 


HISTORICAL  AND   OTHERWISE  69 


How  eagerly  we  ladies  used  to  watch  the  lake  for  a  boat ! 
I  felt  something  must  be  done,  for  although  Mrs.  Dodson  took 
Confederate  money  which  had  dreadfully  depreciated,  for 
board,  I  found  I  would  have  to  use  my  New  Orleans  money 
and  must  get  away.  There  were  fourteen  ladies  besides  my- 
self, who  agreed  to  get  an  army  wagon  with  oxen  and  go 
across  the  country  to  Pearl  River,  where  they  heard  Confed- 
erates had  been  given  transportation  from  that  point  to  New 
Orleans.  The  party,  however,  broke  up  except  two  young 
ladies  and  myself  and  babies.  The  two  young  ladies  were 
ters  and  they  were  indeed  treasures.  Miss  Lillie  Besancon  was  a 
beautiful  girl,  sweet  and  unassuming,  yet  a  tower  of  strength, 
and  helped  us  through  many  trials.  We  left  Pascagoula  on 
Sunday  morning,  the  early  part  of  December,  1863,  with  a 
negro  boy  of  nineteen  for  our  driver,  and  arrived  at  Pearl 
River  the  following  Friday  afternoon.  It  was  a  very  long, 
dismal  ride  through  the  piney  woods  with  no  certain  road. 
The  only  guide  was  where  telegraph  poles  had  formerly  been, 
but  at  that  time  there  was  scarcely  a  vestige  of  them  left.  We 
were  quite  out  of  the  track  for  some  time,  which  our  faithful 
driver  tried  to  hide  from  us.  We  rode  all  day  and  well  into 
the  night,  until  we  found  a  hut  in  which  we  could  shelter  and 
rest.  Those  we  had  met  on  the  trip  were  ignorant,  homeless 
women  and  children,  until  the  last  night  before  reaching  Pearl 
River.  We  then  fell  in  with  a  desperate  set  of  men  and  two 
women.  The  men  went  to  the  wagon  and  tried  to  break  open 
our  trunks.  We  had  three  very  large  ones  and  my  blankets, 
which  were  quite  a  fortune  out  there.  We  put  in  a  dreadful 
night,  for  part  of  the  men  were  drunk  and  very  insulting;  but 
in  the  morning  the  sober  men,  and  I  think  the  women  too, 
with  whom  we  had  pleaded  earnestly,  let  us  go  on.  The  next 
afternoon  we  reached  Dr.  Griffin's  and  Captain  Christy,  whose 
schooner  we  hoped  to  board  for  New  Orleans,  was  a  couple  of 
miles  farther  on.  When  we  had  reached  that  point,  the  Cap- 
tain told  us  he  had  taken  some  Confederate  ladies  on  his 
schooner,  but  had  to  pay  dearly  for  it  and  saw  no  way  he  could 
assist  us.  His  family  were  about  sitting  down  to  supper 
and  he  asked  us  to  join  them;  but,  as  he  had  seemed  greatly 
annoyed  at  our  coming,  we  declined  his  invitation  and  told  him 


70 WAR-TIME   SKETCHES 

we  had  some  provisions  with  us.  He  was  quite  indignant  and 
said  that  he  was  a  poor  man,  but  was  not  used  to  having  people 
object  to  sitting  at  his  table.  Of  course,  we  joined  them  and 
oh,  how  much  we  wanted  that  supper!  We  had  been  living  on 
cold  food  given  us  by  Mrs.  Dodson  for  nearly  a  week,  and  we 
fairly  reveled  in  those  warm  dishes.  After  supper,  the  Cap- 
tain said  he  would  do  what  he  could  for  us.  He  would  provide 
an  escort  for  the  children  and  baggage;  but  the  others  must 
walk  and  leave  the  house  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
so  that  the  authorities  would  not  know  of  our  going.  There 
was  a  fisherman  a  couple  of  miles  down  the  river,  and  he  was 
in  communication  with  the  Yankees — so  we  must  be  discreet. 
We  had  a  very  rough  trip  across  the  lake  to  Fort  Pike  in  a 
small  over-laden  boat.  We  were  received  very  curtly  by  the 
officers  in  charge  and  put  in  the  guard-house.  Miss  Besancon 
was  very  charming  in  a  simple  blue,  barege  sunbonnet  that  cov- 
ered her  brown  curls,  and  quite  subdued  one  of  the  men  by 
her  sweet  lady-like  courtesy.  The  superior  officer  at  the  fort 
happened  to  be  the  same  who,  some  months  previously,  had  his 
regiment  quartered  on  her  father's  plantation.  At  that  time 
all  of  the  men  of  the  family  were  in  the  army,  and  the  place 
was  at  the  mercy  of  the  Yankee  soldiery,  who  cut  down  their 
fine  oak  trees,  stole  their  oranges  and  committed  many  depre- 
dations. Mrs.  Besancon  applied  to  the  Colonel  for  protection. 
He  told  her  she  should  not  be  molested  further  and  she  was  not. 
While  the  regiment  was  on  the  place  they  often  exchanged 
civilities;  but  when  she  agreed  to  let  his  Adjutant  practice  on 
her  piano,  her  daughters  were  much  disgusted  and  kept  out  of 
his  way.  It  was  this  young  man  that  now  came  down  to  us 
at  the  guard-house  and  made  many  apologies  for  our  being  in 
that  place.  He  said  the  Colonel  had  gone  away  for  the  day 
and  locked  up  his  quarters,  but  he  would  make  arrangements 
for  us  on  a  gunboat  lying  out  in  the  stream.  He  went  with  us 
very  soon  and  introduced  us  to  the  officers  who  were  far  from 
cordial.  We  afterwards  found  out  that  some  of  the  women 
they  had  taken  to  New  Orleans  had  been  very  abusive  of  them. 
The  accommodations  on  the  boat  seemed  very  grand  to  us,  and 
the  dinner  was  luxurious  and  beautiful  with  silver  and  china. 
Miss  Besancon  made  a  real  friend  of  Capt.  Groves,  who  was  in 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 71 

charge.  We  started  the  next  day  for  New  Orleans.  On  arriving 
two  conveyances  were  provided  for  us  with  an  officer  in  each  to 
drive  us  to  our  destination.  Capt.  Groves  went  with  us  to  the 
office  where  we  had  to  take  the  oath  and  relieved  us  of  much 
of  the  embarrassment  attending  the  many  questions  asked  and 
to  which  we  were  obliged  to  subscribe.  He  then  went  with  us 
to  the  prison  where  the  Confederates  were  detained  on  some 
pretext.  Our  confinement  lasted  only  a  few  hours,  but  some 
who  were  there  told  us  they  had  been  kept  a  week  or  more. 

My  New  Orleans  friends  received  me  with  the  greatest  af- 
fection and  wanted  me  to  stop  in  their  homes ;  but  I  tried  as 
soon  as  possible  to  get  our  home  and  furniture  which  we  had 
left,  and  take  boarders.  The  city  was  very  full  of  people  for 
they  had  flowed  in  from  all  parts  of  the  North.  Business  was 
good  and  money  plentiful.  I  had  trouble  to  get  my  furniture 
and  could  not  get  my  house  under  any  circumstances.  Finally, 
I  left  New  Orleans  on  a  steamer  for  New  York  the  last  of 
February,  1864,  and  remained  in  Georgetown  with  relatives 
until  the  close  of  the  war.  The  siege  of  Mobile — where  I  had 
left  my  husband — was  in  progress  and,  on  one  occasion,  I  did 
not  hear  from  him  for  six  months.  I  heard  only  the  Northern 
accounts  of  the  war  and  when  I  read  of  ten  and  twenty  thou- 
sand being  killed  in  battle,  I  thought  it  was  only  a  question 
of  time  when  those  brave  men  would  be  wiped  out.  Oh,  how 
very  old  I  felt !  and,  but  for  my  children,  would  very  gladly 
have  shared  their  privations. 

I  sailed  from  New  York  to  New  Orleans,  about  a  week 
after  the  hanging  of  Mrs.  Surratt,  to  meet  my  dear  husband, 
who  was  paroled  with  an  honorable  discharge  from  the  Con- 
federate army.  We  commenced  life  over  again,  and  the  dear 
Lord  spared  him  to  celebrate  our  Golden  Wedding. 


72  WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 


A  CONFEDERATE  HOOP-SKIRT. 

ABOUT  seven  o'clock  on  a  clear  pleasant  morning  in  the 
early  autumn  of  1863,  an  odd  group  assembled  in  the 
front  yard  of  Mrs.  Smith's  pretty  cottage  in  Memphis, 
Tennessee.    Our  scene  takes  place  opposite  the  Armory — then 
held  by  Northern  invaders,  but  formerly  used  by  the  Confed- 
erates as  a  manufactory  and  depot  for  cartridges. 

Our  young  friend,  Margaret  Drane,  a  trifle  more  sedate 
than  when  we  last  held  pleasant  converse — her  golden  hair  in 
a  twist  or  half  curl  swinging  to  her  waist — came  down  the 
stairs  gently  supporting  a  tall,  serious-faced,  elderly  lady  whose 
years  must  have  counted  half  a  century.  Despite  her  thin, 
delicate  features,  her  figure  was  rotund,  on  the  scale  certainly 
two  hundred  pounds.  Apparently  she  needed  aid,  for  in  her 
naturally  easy,  gliding  walk  there  was  a  certain  queer  little 
halting  movement  that  recalled  the  slow  steps  of  a  minuet, 
such  as  in  childhood's  days  a  Virginia  grandmother  described 
as  the  dance  tripped  in  stately  measure  by  high-placed  belles 
of  the  Old  Dominion.  Recent  typhoid  had  made  pallid  and 
torn  from  the  features  of  this  old  gentlewoman  all  claims  to 
physical  beauty,  but  though  her  appearance  was  grotesque  and 
every  movement  marred  by  that  queer  little  halt,  there  was 
about  her  the  dignity  and  repose  of  manner  which  marks  the 
true  lady  and  shows  that  her  life  is  governed  by  a  purpose.  A 
fervent  Baptist  in  belief,  a  veritable  Dorcas  in  good  works,  an 
ardent  lover  of  the  Confederate  Cause,  her  friends  asserted 
that  she  was  never  known  to  laugh,  rarely  to  smile.  Under 
all  skies  and  every  circumstance,  life  to  her  was  stern,  hedged 
in  always  by  the  grim  word,  duty.  Peradventure,  had  the  kind- 
ly gods  Eros  and  Hymen  smiled  upon  her  youth,  like  the  de- 
voted Mrs.  Gordon,  she  would  have  held  her  place  in  the  rear 
of  every  battle-field  on  which  her  soldier  husband  fought;  but 
the  fact  that  her  father  languished  in  a  Northern  prison  and 
three  stalwart  brothers  were  members  of  that  invincible  troop 
known  as  Forrest's  Cavalry,  constantly  exposed  to  the  bullets 
of  the  enemy,  made  such  harsh  demands  upon  her  affections 
as  to  forbid  all  smiles  and  words  of  levity. 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 73 

Arriving  in  Memphis,  a  few  days  previous  to  the  present 
narrative,  Miss  Lucy — as  she  was  affectionately  called  by  her 
numerous  friends — upon  passing  the  Federal  lines  was  in- 
stantly arrested  and  subjected  to  a  strict  examination.  Freed 
from  this  indignity,  very  nervous  and  much  bedraggled,  she 
at  once  sought  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smith,  her  city  friends.  The 
object  of  her  braving  the  perils  of  a  visit  to  Federal-ridden 
Memphis  was  to  procure  medicines  for  a  hospital  and  clothing 
for  her  brothers.  They  like  the  majority  of  Forrest's  hard 
riders,  were  almost  as  bare  as  the  wild  Irish  Kernes  when  they 
fought  in  the  Netherland  bogs. 

For  ten  days,  Sunday  not  excepted,  our  frail,  sad-visagea 
heroine  would  go  out  into  the  by-streets  and  suburbs  of  the 
city  with  loyal  friends  to  make  her  purchases  at  different 
stores — of  drugs,  only  ten  cents  worth  at  a  time  from  each,  in 
order  not  to  attract  the  attention  of  Northern  spies.  Six  suits 
of  underclothing,  also  two  pairs  of  cavalry  boots,  in  addition 
to  socks,  handkerchiefs,  etc.,  were  gradually  laid  in.  All  of 
this  made  a  large  quantity  of  goods  to  be  transported  from 
within  to  the  outer  lines,  but  there  was  no  limit  to  the  patri- 
otic devotion  of  our  heroine  and  desire  to  make  warm  her  three 
brave,  soldier-brothers. 

When  the  eventful  day  drew  near  for  her  departure,  all 
was  quiet  activity  in  Mrs.  Smith's  cottage.  The  preceding 
night  no  one  slept,  for  all  were  merrily  intent  on  outwitting 
the  Federals  and  eagerly  interested  in  making  Miss  Lucy  ready 
for  her  journey.  Between  two  strong  petticoats  were  quilted 
a  quantity  of  medicine  and  tobacco.  That  was  easy,  but  when 
it  came  to  secreting  despatches  from  General  Bragg  and  other 
officers  in  Kentucky  sent  to  Mr.  Smith  for  forwarding,  the 
conference  was  long  and  much  puzzled.  After  a  night  of  wake- 
fulness, an  idea  suggested  itself  to  the  inventive  brain  of  Mar- 
garet. The  hair  of  Miss  Lucy  had  fallen  out  as  a  result  of  her 
illness,  and  she  had  brought  it  to  Memphis  with  the  intention 
of  having  it  converted  into  a  braid.  Luckily,  too  much  en- 
grossed with  her  brothers'  outfit,  she  had  not  given  it  a  thought. 
Margaret  deftly  turned  this  tangle  into  a  graceful  "waterfall" 
— just  then  introduced  to  the   fashionable   world.     Its  capa- 


74 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

cious  interior  was  rammed  full  of  what  little  money  was  left 
from  shopping  and  with  it  went  the  precious  despatches. 

At  daylight  Miss  Lucy's  toilette  began,  and  never  was 
queen  more  obsequiously  served,  though  the  ceremony  was 
enlivened  at  intervals  by  smothered  giggles  which  the  youthful 
Margaret  could  not  always  choke  off.  Over  a  soft  undergar- 
ment Mrs.  Smith,  the  first  lady-in-waiting,  buttoned  an  under- 
waist  thickly  padded  with  calomel  and  quinine ;  then  came  the 
skirt  quilted  with  tobacco  and  divers  drugs ;  the  cavalry  boots 
were  suspended  by  a  stout  string  passed  through  the  loops  of 
the  boots  at  top  and  securely  tied  round  the  waist ;  but  the  large 
hoop-skirt  concealing  all  this  "contraband  of  war"  might  justly 
be  esteemed  a  triumph  of  home  inventiveness  and  patient 
needle.  Made  of  white  domestic  with  casings  into  which 
reeds  were  slipped,  it  was  as  unyielding  and  stiff  as  the  far- 
thingale "worn  by  English  court  ladies  of  three  centuries  agone. 
Over  the  hoop  fell  the  voluminous  breadths  of  the  homespun 
dress — standing  out  with  a  starched  precision  that  rivalled  the 
jeweled  satin  robes  of  coquettish  Elizabeth  Tudor,  when  she 
coyly  curtsied  to  the  deferential  homage  of  "sweet  Robin."  A 
home-made  palm-leaf  hat  with  a  bright  blue  ribbon  passing 
in  saucy  color  over  the  top,  was  knotted  beneath  her  chin — 
thus  converting  the  flat  into  a  jaunty  scoop  that  gave  room  for 
the  ample  waterfall,  and  afforded  a  welcome  shade  from  the 
sun  in  her  long  ride  beyond  Memphis.  At  last,  our  heroine — 
not  one  of  romance,  but  practical  and  plain — was  ready  for  her 
perilous  undertaking — as  much  of  a  guy  as  loving  hearts  and 
willing  hands  dared  make  her. 

A  Texas  mustang  had  been  purchased  for  the  occasion — 
beautiful  in  long  mane  and  flowing  tail  when  it  scoured  its 
native  plain  as  was  ever  a  wild  horse  of  the  Ukraine.  But  now, 
of  all  ill-fed,  gaunt,  woeful  beasts  of  burden,  none  in  dolorous 
aspect  could  compare  with  this  poor  victim  of  empty  corn-bins. 
But  its  very  woefulness  made  it  the  more  desirable.  The  Fed- 
erals watching  at  the  fords  of  Nonconnah  stream  were  too 
sharp  to  allow  a  good  horse  to  travel  beyond  the  lines  to  sup- 
ply the  need  of  some  scout  of  the  pestilent  Forrest.  More- 
over, the  rider  arrayed  "a  la  Meg  Merrilies"  and  mounted  on 
so  ill-looking  an  animal  would  be  less  liable  to  detention  if 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 75 

called  upon  to  halt.  "Bones" — as  the  laughing  Margaret 
dubbed  him — was  led  around  to  the  front  and  stood  at  the 
sidewalk,  wearily  but  patiently  awaiting  the  next  cuff  his  hard 
fate  had  in  store  for  him. 

To  prevent  the  vigilant  Federals  in  Armory  from  sus- 
pecting that  the  rebels  were  up  to  some  disloyalty,  it  was  pru- 
dently decided  that  Miss  Lucy  should  mount  her  horse  outside 
the  gate  in  full  view  of  all  passers  by.  It  was  indeed  an  ordeal 
for  a  refined  woman,  but  of  what  is  patriotism  and  love  not 
capable?  Poor  Bones — waking  from  dreams  of  corn  and  oats 
• — sniffed  the  chair  that  was  brought  out  to  aid  in  the  ascent 
to  his  back.  It  was  like  climbing  the  hump  of  a  camel  for, 
beneath  his  saddle,  raising  it  unusually  high,  had  been  ar- 
ranged in  neat  layers  one  upon  another,  the  six  suits  of  under- 
wear. All  of  these  were  kept  in  place  by  a  thin  blanket.  It 
was  odd,  but  despite  Miss  Lucy's  many  excellencies,  she  gen- 
erally created  a  deal  of  quiet  amusement  for  her  friends.  Now, 
after  careful  adjustment  of  her  hoop-skirt,  she  attempted  light- 
ly to  swing  herself  to  the  saddle.  Bones  made  his  protest 
against  man's  inhumanity  by  falling  flat  down  and  bringing  her 
to  the  ground  with  him.  Here  was  indeed  a  contretemps  !  All 
set  to  work  to  extricate  Miss  Lucy  who,  with  the  unyielding 
hoop  caught  on  pommel  of  saddle,  was  unable  to  rise.  Oppo- 
site, the  Federals  stopped  their  work  of  making  ammunition 
and  roared  with  hilarious  laughter.  The  negro  house  servants 
gathered  at  the  open  windows  and  looked  on  in  sympathetic 
dismay.  As  for  Margaret,  the  comic  pitifulness  of  rider  and 
horse  was  too  much  for  decorous  composure.  She  discreetly 
slipped  inside  the  gate  and,  behind  screening  fence  and  under 
the  shade  of  trees,  rolled  on  the  grass  in  a  convulsion  of  sup- 
pressed giggling.  "My  Gord !  Dat  chile  sure  is  sick  wid  de 
colic !"  cried  the  pitying  cook. 

But  even  the  bubbling  laughter  of  sweet  sixteen  exhausts 
itself  in  time.  Fearful  of  wounding  the  sensibilities  of  Miss 
Lucy — to  whom  though  eccentric  she  was  sincerely  attached 
— Margaret  finally  scrambled  to  her  feet  and  cheering  poor 
Bones  with  friendly  words  and  caressing  pats  of  her  hand, 
induced  him  once  more  to  stand  up  and  receive  his  rider.  Time 
was  passing  and  the  sun  gave  warning  to  be  off.     Beyond  the 


76 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

clear  waters  of  Nonconnah,  Confederate  scouts  had  made  tryst 
with  the  adventurous  lady  and  her  much  needed  wares,  and 
that  tryst  she  must  "bide." 

Here  on  the  scene  now  appeared  Mrs.  Smith  riding  a 
blooded  roan — striking  contrast  to  Bones — and  accompanied 
by  her  husband  for  a  morning  ride.  In  passing,  she  merely 
glanced  at  the  group  around  her  door  as  if  they  had  been  so 
many  strangers,  but  that  glance  was  enough  for  a  cue.  Then 
away  in  brisk  canter  sped  husband  and  wife  for  the  "lines," 
where  all  suspected  persons  either  coming  in  or  going  out  of 
Memphis  were  taken  to  'be  searched.  Margaret,  as  her  sister 
rode  off,  hurriedly  passed  up  to  Miss  Lucy  a  bottle  of  Mustang 
Liniment,  charging  her  "to  throw  its  contents  into  the  face 
of  the  first  Yankee  daring  enough  to  try  and  arrest  her."  Giv- 
ing a  pat  to  Bones  and  urging  him  to  "be  off"  and  "be  good," 
she  ran  upstairs  to  hide  the  light-hearted  laughter  which  re- 
spect for  Miss  Lucy  forbade  vent  in  her  presence.  That  char- 
itable, unsuspecting  lady  ascribed  her  emotion  to  tears  over 
the  risk  she  was  taking,  and  rode  off  in  happy  ignorance  of  her 
mirth-provoking  aspect.  Bones,  stolidly  bearing  his  burden 
but  with  many  a  limp  and  halt,  slowlv  stumbled  along  in  the 
wake  of  Mrs.  Smith. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smith  passed  Miss  Lucy  on  the  road  without 
even  a  nod  of  recognition,  and  reached  the  lines  long  before 
she  was  in  sight  of  them.  Here  they  were  soon  engaged  in  a 
merry  interchange  of  wits  with  some  of  the  Federal  officers, 
whose  good-will  they  were  politic  enough  to  cultivate  for  the 
sake  of  the  Cause.  As  the  comical  figure  of  Miss  Lucy  hove 
in  sight,  Mrs.  Smith  with  a  ringing  laugh  cried  to  the  com- 
manding officer:  "Do  look  at  that  Judy  mounted  on  Rosi- 
nante !  You  surely  are  not  going  to  arrest  that  crazy  looking 
creature  are  you?  Better  let  her  pass,  she  certainly  will  kill 
the  rebels  with  fright.  I  had  her  for  a  time  in  my  house  and 
am  glad  to  be  rid  of  her" — and  she  tapped  her  forehead  signi- 
ficantly. "But  goodbye,  your  pleasant  official  duties  are  calling 
you" — and  with  another  gay  laugh  and  wave  of  her  hand  in 
direction  of  the  approaching  "Judy,"  rode  for  home.  Looking 
back,  she  saw  that  the  officers,  acting  upon  the  hint  that  her 
wits  were  disordered,  had  allowed  Miss  Lucy  to  pass  without 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 77 

question.  Her  being  sponsored  by  one  so  high  in  Federal 
esteem  as  Mrs.  Smith,  doubtless  had  much  to  do  with  her  not 
being  searched. 

Happily  rid  of  Federal  patrols  and  guards,  Miss  Lucy,  not 
pinning  faith  to  Emerson's  dazzling  "seraphim  of  destiny," 
but  serenely  trusting  in  Providence  and,  maybe,  with  a  soft 
strain  of  an  old  hymn  floating  musically  across  her  mind,  with- 
out escort,  but  also  without  misgiving,  began  to  cover  the  long 
weary  miles  to  the  constantly  changing  headquarters  of  the 
ever-flitting  Forrest.  Unlike  those  of  General  Pope,  his  really 
were  "in  the  saddle,"  for  rarely  did  two  nights  see  him  in  the 
same  place  and  the  Federals  were  always  finding  him  where 
they  least  wanted  him !  Fortunately,  Bones  as  if  conscious 
that  he  was  working  in  a  good  cause,  held  bravely  up  until 
beyond  the  Federal  lines,  but  once  more  in  Dixie,  joy  and  weak- 
ness combined  got  the  better  of  his  good-will.  Again  he  stum- 
bled and  fell — this  time  by  good  luck  on  his  knees.  Miss  Lucy, 
on  whose  thin  ankles  the  boots  had  pounded  a  tattoo  at  every 
step,  clambered  to  the  ground.  She  peered  eagerly  around  for 
her  friends  the  scouts ;  but  Bones'  plodding  gait  had  spoiled 
all  hope  of  meeting  them.  Those  busy  men,  like  the  shadows 
of  evening,  had  quickly  come  and,  the  tryst  unkept,  had  quietly 
gone.  With  the  air  of  one  accustomed  to  disappointment  and 
without  further  waste  of  time,  she  threw  her  weary  burden  of 
boots  and  quilted  skirt  on  the  pommel  of  the  saddle  and,  taking 
the  bridle  in  hand,  fearlessly  walked  the  long  country  road  at 
the  side  of  uncomplaining  Bones.  Providence  soon  rewarded 
her  trust,  for  she  overtook  a  cavalry  wagon  en  route  to  For- 
rest's flying  headquarters.  A  lift  was  gallantly  offered  her  by 
the  honest  Confederate  wagoner  and  with  cheerful  readiness 
accepted.  Of  what  had  she  to  be  afraid?  Was  she  not  in 
Dixie  with  guardians  all  around  her? 

Finally,  without  mishap  or  molestation  she  reached  her 
journey's  end — at  some  vanishing  point  between  Oxford,  Mis- 
sissippi, and  East  Tennessee,  the  famous  stamping  ground  of 
Forrest's  cavalry.  In  the  joy  of  relieving  the  necessities  of  her 
proud  and  delighted  brothers,  our  gentle  spinster  forgot  the 
risks  and  discomforts  of  her  really  perilous  trip.  An  innocent 
pride  was  hers  as,  in  person,  she  delivered  her  military  dis- 


78 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

patches  to  the  great  Cavalryman,  and  heard  the  care-ridden 
hospital  surgeon  gratefully  call  her  small  store  of  drugs  a 
"perfect  God-send." 

Bones,  less  martial  than  the  fiery  "horse  without  peer" 
that  brought  the  "good  news  from  Ghent,"  to  whom  the  grate- 
ful burgesses  of  Aix  voted  their  last  bottle  of  wine,  was  con- 
tent for  his  patient  endurance  of  ills,  to  receive  a  good  feed  of 
oats.  Let  us  hope — though  chronicles  are  silent  on  the  subject 
— his  last  days  in  Dixie  were  not  without  comfort  and  care, 
and  that  with  food  he  soon  lost  the  grisly  name  by  which  we 
made  his  acquaintance. 

>}c         ^c         :£         :£         :£         ^: 

One  word  more:  The  uplifting  sadness  of  Miss  Lucy 
Jones  was  prophetic  of  future  loss.  Only  one  brother  survived 
the  war,  and  her  father  laid  down  his  life  in  a  Northern  prison. 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE  79 


MRS.    O'FLAHERTY'S    FUNERAL. 

IN  the  days  of  General  Washburn's  occupation  of  Memphis 
— when  General  Nathan  B.  Forrest  with  his  cavalry  hov- 
ering on  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  was  ever  a  menace  by 
day  and  a  terror  by  night  to  the  peace  and  repose  of  the  Fed- 
eral commander — the  following  incident  took  place  which  well 
illustrates  the  grotesque  humor  that  sometimes  played  over 
the  stern  realities  of  the  Civil  War. 

In  South  Memphis,  in  the  direction  of  Elmwood  Ceme- 
tery, was  a  livery  stable  owned  and  operated  by  an  Irishman 
by  the  name  of  O'Flaherty,  a  man  of  substance  who  doubt- 
less argued,  like  many  of  his  brother  Hibernians,  that  being 
the  lineal  descendant  of  O'Flaherty,  he  was  also  the  descendant 
of  O'Somebody,  who  was  also  the  son  of  another  O'Somebody, 
who  went  back  in  unbroken  succession  to  the  blood  of  Irish 
Kings.  With  all  his  heart  and  soul  he  "went  in  for  a  rebillion" 
— caring  little  whether  in  Memphis  or  Cork.  Through  him, 
actively  aided  by  his  wife,  also  a  child  of  the  Emerald  Isle,  a 
constant  communication  was  kept  up  with  Forrest,  and  few 
were  the  movements  of  the  Federals  in  the  city  but  what  were 
reported  to  and  often  thwarted  by  this  bold,  alert  leader  of 
Confederate  Cavalry. 

O'Flaherty's  wife  was  indeed  a  kindred  spirit,  a  spouse 
well  chosen  by  an  eccentric  Irishman  whose  political  creed 
embraced  but  two  articles — the  wearing  of  the  "green  above 
the  red"  and  the  "cracking  of  crowns."  Having  embraced  the 
Southern  side  in  the  war  between  the  sections,  Dame  O'Fla- 
herty threw  into  the  struggle  all  the  wit,  force  and  energy  of 
a  warm  Celtic  heart  and  mind  ever  bubling  over  with  humor- 
ous subtlety. 

No  half  measures  would  do  for  her.  She  learned  that 
Forrest's  brave  men  were  sadly  in  need  of  guns,  ammunition 
and  supplies  of  clothing.  To  hear  of  their  sorrowful  plight  was 
an  irresistible  appeal  to  her  newly  adopted  patriotism.  She 
resolved  that  what  they  wanted  they  should  have  and  straight- 
way sat  plotting  for  the  ways  and  means.  "Why" — she  solilo- 
quized— "should  my  good  Confederate  friends,  dacent  boys, 
every  mother's  son  of  them,  starve  and  go  half-shod  with  niver 


80 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

a  gun  or  bullet  to  shoot  the  inimy  that's  shooting  at  them,  when 
the  stores  in  Memphis  are  running  over  with  what  they  lack 
and  haven't  got?" 

After  this  Hibernianism,  Mrs.  O'Flaherty  set  to  work  in 
earnest.  Into  her  counsel  she  took  some  friends — all  brave- 
spirited  and  true  as  steel  to  the  boys  in  gray.  Each  became  a 
conspirator  and  gladly  followed  her  leadership.  By  the  pur- 
chase of  small  lots  of  supplies  in  various  quarters  of  the  city, 
they  gathered  quite  a  store  of  clothing,  cavalry  boots,  guns, 
ammunition,  etc.,  and  secreted  them  in  the  stables  and  funeral 
parlors  of  which  O'Flaherty  was  the  director.  All  things  being 
in  train,  a  member  of  the  O'Flaherty  clan — Mrs.  O'Flaherty 
herself — was  reported  ill  and  later  worse,  anon  dead!  A  mor- 
tuary ad  in  the  daily  papers  gave  due  notice  of  decease  and 
then  there  was  a  gathering  of  sorrowing  friends  to  "wake"  the 
dead  O'Flaherty.  The  next  afternoon  an  elaborate  funeral  in 
keeping  with  the  ancient  blood  and  dignity  of  an  Irish  family 
descended  from  Irish  kings,  having  already  been  decreed — a 
long  line  of  carriages,  driven  by  men  with  faces  black  as  their 
funeral  garb,  drew  up  in  front  of  the  overflowing  parlors.  A 
heavy,  ornate  casket  was  laboriously  lifted  and  borne  by  six 
solemn-visaged  pall-bearers  to  a  stately  hearse,  swept  at  its 
four  corners  by  ebony  plumes  to  enhance  the  dismal  pomp. 
Drawn  by  a  span  of  powerful  black  horses  it  led  the  long, 
mournful  procession  that  left  the  mortuary  parlors.  Slowly, 
and  with  evidences  of  deepest  grief,  it  traversed  the  streets. 
Occasionally,  a  shrill  peculiarly  weird  cry,  the  Celtic  "keening" 
or  lamentation  over  their  dead,  broke  upon  the  air  and  drew 
the  gaping,  wonder-eyed  idlers  to  the  street  corners.  Bound 
for  Elmwood  Cemetery,  a  mile  off,  the  solemn  train  took  the 
same  road  made  famous  by  the  wild,  rebel  yells  and  mad  dash 
of  Forrest's  cavalry  raid. 

Passing  into  the  cemetery  by  the  much-frequented  front 
entrance,  the  procession,  slowly  and  decorously,  as  though  not 
to  disturb  the  deep  quiet  brooding  over  the  city  of  the 
dead,  wended  its  way  through  the  central  avenue  in  the  direc- 
tion of  an  old,  rarely  used  exit  on  the  opposite  side.  This  exit 
opened  upon  a  road  that,  shaded  by  dense  woods,  went  down 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE 81 

to  the  narrow  stream  called  by  the  Indians  from  its  refreshing 
coolness  "Nonconnah"  (cold  water).  As  the  cortege  neared 
this  gate,  signs  of  uneasiness  began  to  appear.  The  hearse 
bearing  the  defunct  O'Flaherty  swayed  from  side  to  side.  Sud- 
denly, as  if  the  dark  forest  in  front  filled  them  with  fear,  the 
noble  span  of  black  horses  neighed,  kicked,  reared  in  affright, 
pitched  forward,  then  broke  from  the  control  of  their  driver 
and  madly  dashed  through  the  gate,  down  the  road,  overturn- 
ing hearse  and  pitching  the  casket  as  if  it  had  been  a  cockle- 
shell into  a  clump  of  shrubbery  that  grew  close  by  the  way- 
side. At  once  a  stampede  followed.  As  each  carriage  rolled 
through  the  gate,  it  was  as  if  a  grisly  phantom  beckoned  it  to 
doom.  The  horses,  seized  with  a  panic,  became  utterly  un- 
manageable. In  turn  they,  too,  pitched  forward,  bolted  and 
galloped  wildly  down  the  long  country  road,  faster  and  faster, 
turning  the  soft  summer  stillness  into  pandemonium  with  the 
clatter  of  their  hoofs,  and  dropping  the  mourners  by  the  road- 
side in  bushes,  ditches,  dust  and  dirt,  right  and  left  like  so 
many  shelled  peas.  Nothing  could  halt  the  runaway  caravan 
as  it  frantically  tore  along  making  for  the  distant  Nonconnah 
stream.  Only  a  plunge  in  its  cold  waters  could  exorcise  the 
mad  demon  of  the  wood  that  goaded  them  to  frenzy.  Fortu- 
nately this  wild  Gilpin  race  went  by  a  way  back  of  the  Federal 
guard  house,  built  a  mile  from  its  banks,  else  the  "sleeping  dogs 
of  war"  might  have  waked,  and  then  it  would  have  gone  ill 
with  the  O'Flaherty  clan. 

Wearily  picking  themselves  up  from  where  they  had  been 
dumped,  still  doubtful  whether  they  were  on  heads  or  heels, 
the  battered,  bruised,  limping  occupants,  of  the  funeral  coaches 
implored  each  passer-by  they  chanced  to  meet  in  the  fast-gath- 
ering twilight,  to  capture  their  runaway  horses  and  drive  them 
back  to  the  city.  Apparently  the  wave  of  a  magic  wand  had 
made  their  drivers  disappear  in  the  grayish-green  shadows  of 
the  woods,  or  along  the  banks  of  Nonconnah  stream.  These 
mourners  coming  out  of  the  city  might  have  simulated  lamen- 
tation and  deep  anguish  of  spirit,  certainly  all  was  genuine  on 
their  return. 

It  was  a  ludicrous  ending  to  a  most  successful  bit  of  mum- 
mery planned  and  practised  in  the  camp  of  the  enemy.     The 


82 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

initiated  knew  that  the  ponderous  casket  was  innocent  of  mor- 
tality, but  a  receptacle  for  guns,  powder,  etc. ;  that  it  was  skill- 
fully thrown  off  at  a  spot  agreed  upon,  to  be  eagerly  seized  and 
plundered  by  Forrest's  bold  scouts  lying  in  wait ;  that  many  of 
the  mourners  threw  articles  secreted  upon  their  persons  into 
the  shrubbery — all  so  swiftly  done  in  the  confusion  and  uproar 
of  the  moment  that  the  most  unfriendly  eye,  had  there  been 
one,  could  not  detect  them.  The  drivers  were  all  daring  Con- 
federates, who  rode  after  Forrest.  Smuggled  into  the  city  for 
the  occasion,  with  faces  well  blackened,  they  were  at  once 
taken  into  service  by  the  wild  Irishman,  O'Flaherty.  What  a 
knowing,  gleeful  twinkle  of  the  eye  was  his,  as  he  thought  of 
the  cunning  stampede  these  bold  riders  would  engineer  along 
the  road  they  had  made  famous  by  their  early  morning  raid ! 

We  are  glad  for  the  sake  of  holy  things  that  the  priest, 
bell,  book  and  candle  were  omitted  in  this  farcical  funeral. 
Although  it  was  well  understood  among  the  participants  and 
Southern  sympathizers  generally  that  the  sturdy,  humorous 
dame  was  not  the  defunct  in  the  ghostly  mumery  exploited  as 
"her  funeral,"  the  episode  is  yet  spoken  of  by  the  survivors 
of  that  day  as  "Mrs.  O'Flaherty's  Funeral." 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE  83 


AN  INCIDENT  OF  THE  RECONSTRUCTION. 

THE  State  in  which  our  story  takes  place  is  Mississippi. 
To  be  exact  at  Wakefield  Landing,  in  Adams  County, 
that  looks  across  the  great  dividing  river  upon  the 
parish  of  Concordia,  in  its  sister  Commonwealth,  Louisiana. 
The  year  was  1873,  one  of  the  fatal  years  in  that  tragic  period 
of  Southern  history  after  the  Civil  War,  known  as  the  "Recon- 
struction." It  was  a  time  when  the  negroes,  drunk  with  the 
new  wine  of  their  lately  acquired  freedom,  had  abandoned 
labor  in  the  cane  and  cotton  fields  and  once  more  fell  to  the 
primitive  condition  of  savagery.  Their  chief  rendezvous  was 
an  islet — a  spot  of  greenery  known  as  The  Island  in  Old  River, 
a  former  channel  of  the  restless,  ever-changing  Mississippi 
River.  Here  they  congregated  by  hundreds  and  from  this 
place,  in  prowling  bands,  roamed  the  country  around,  to  rob, 
burn  and  murder.  It  was  in  this  turbulent  time  in  early  spring 
that  the  river,  swollen  by  waters  received  from  its  great  tri- 
butaries above,  was  becoming  an  angry  flood  against  its  bar- 
rier levees.  The  air  was  filled  with  fears  of  an  approaching 
crevasse,  and  of  wild  reports  of  depredations  and  crimes  com- 
mitted by  the  blacks. 

Fertile,  by  reason  of  rich  alluvial  deposits,  the  section  of 
Adams  County  bordering  on  the  river  was  largely  given  to  the 
cultivation  of  cotton.  The  plantations  being  large  were  miles 
apart  and  their  crops  of  cotton,  when  grown  to  maturity,  ef- 
fectually concealed  the  residence  of  one  planter  from  his  neigh- 
bor. With  neighbors,  however,  one  was  not  over-burdened, 
as  there  were  only  three  houses  in  sight  of  Wakefield  Landing. 
The  plantation  of  Doctor  Thurman — an  ex-Confederate 
soldier,  a  practising  physician  and  an  experimental  chemist — 
was  a  short  distance  from  the  landing  with  only  a  broad  coun- 
try road  between  the  house  and  river.  On  a  certain  day,  there 
was  great  excitement  at  Wakefield,  caused  by  an  influx  of  the 
wives  of  planters  with  their  children.  These,  greatly  alarmed 
by  the  threats  of  the  negroes,  came  to  the  landing  to  take  a 
boat  for  Natchez,  thirty-five  miles  distant,  where  they  would 
be  assured  of  protection.  Strange  to  say,  these  women  were 
not  accompanied  by  their  husbands — all  had  suddenly  disap- 


84 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

peared  from  home.  It  was  soon  decided  that  the  Doctor  must 
go  to  Natchez  for  troops  with  which  to  quell  the  negroes.  His 
wife  courageously  decided  to  remain  behind.  Though  young 
in  years,  she  was  a  fearless  heroine  of  the  Sixties  and  was  un- 
willing to  leave  their  home  to  be  destroyed. 

That  night  she  sat  alone  in  the  small  office  of  the  planta- 
tion store.  The  servants  had  been  dismissed  and,  after  making 
pallets  under  the  beds  for  greater  security,  her  helpless,  crip- 
pled brother-in-law  had  retired  and  her  three  babes  had  been 
put  to  sleep.  The  night  was  still,  save  for  ~the  thin,  ghostly 
croaking  of  frogs  from  a  nearby  marsh ;  the  cicadas  had  long 
ceased  their  shrill  notes ;  the  whipporwill  was  silent,  and  over 
the  broad  cotton  fields,  from  the  dense  forest  beyond,  the  usual 
lonely  hoot  of  the  owl  called  not  to  its  mate.  Only  the  soft 
swish  of  a  bat's  wings — as,  attracted  by  the  light  of  the  lamp, 
it  flew  in  at  an  open  window — ruffled  the  silence.  A  deep  hush, 
as  if  the  night  awaited  something,  sure  to  happen,  had  fallen 
upon  the  woods,  and  seemed  to  deaden  the  sullen  undertone 
of  the  mighty  river  rolling  onward  to  the  Gulf. 

Suddenly,  the  loud  report  of  a  pistol  coming  from  the  road 
in  the  front  broke  the  brooding  quiet.  Darkness  swallowed  the 
sinister  echoes  and  all  again  was  still.  At  the  first  shock  of 
the  report,  Mrs.  Thurman  sprang  from  her  seat  and,  with 
the  steady  nerves  of  a  woman  who  had  been  tried  on  critical 
occasions,  walked  to  the  door.  The  hour,  the  darkness,  her 
lonely  condition  might  well  have  excused  a  flutter  of  nervous- 
ness at  so  unusual  an  occurrence — coming  when  public  feeling 
was  so  deeply  stirred.  The  door,  usually  secured  by  a  wooden 
button  was  open,  but  she  did  not  close  it.  Raising  her  voice 
to  a  pitch  from  which  it  could  be  thrown  to  a  distance,  she 
cried  in  clear,  even  tones  :  "If  that  nonsense  of  firing  pistols 
around  my  house  at  this  hour  of  the  night  is  not  stopped,  I 
will  set  off  the  magazine.  That  will  bring  the  Ku  Klux  and 
you  well  know  what  that  means."  It  was  well  that  this  threat 
of  firing  the  magazine  was  not  put  to  the  proof  for,  apart  from 
the  rifle  called  by  the  plantation  hands  "Shoot-all-day,"  the 
only  weapon  in  the  house  was  a  small  pistol.  Listening  in- 
tently for  the  effect  of  her  brave  words,  she  heard  stealthy 
steps  as  of  a  number  of  men  slinking  around  the  corner  of  the 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE. 85 

yard  and  retreating  through  the  woods.  Their  way  was  down 
a  long  country  road  that  led  to  the  Island,  three  miles  off,  in 
a  curve  of  the  Mississippi  river. 

As  the  sound  of  steps  lost  itself  in  the  woods,  Mrs. 
Thurman,  with  a  look  upon  her  face  that  told  of  desperate 
resolve,  turned  to  the  store.  Against  the  wall,  back  of  the  coun- 
ter, were  ranged  four  barrels  of  liquor — one  of  alcohol  for  ex- 
periments in  the  laboratory,  another  of  brandy,  one  of  cordial 
and  one  of  whiskey  for  use  on  the  plantation.  To  these  she 
quickly  stepped  and  deftly  removed  the  bung  of  each.  Con- 
scious that  the  negroes  for  miles  around  knew  of  the  liquor  in 
the  storehouse,  also  that  it  would  be  their  first  demand  should 
they  return  for  attack,  she  was  resolved,  as  it  was  a  matter  of 
kill  or  be  killed,  that  their  first  drink  should  be  their  last. 
Serenely,  by  the  light  of  her  lamp,  with  a  hand  that  trembled 
not,  cool  as  Judith  when  about  to  cut  off  the  head  of  Holo- 
fernes,,  she  went  about  her  work  preparing  for  the  worst.  From 
a  jar  in  the  laboratory,  she  selected  four  lumps  of  arsenic,  each 
about  the  size  of  a  small  marble,  and  placed  the  deadly  drug 
by  the  open  bung  of  each  of  the  four  barrels.  It  was  strange 
to  see  a  woman  young,  tender,  refined  who  could  prepare  a 
death-dealing  dose  to  slaughter  by  the  wholesale ;  but  her  three 
babes  soundly  asleep  in  the  next  room,  helpless  and  uncon- 
scious of  peril,  was  her  only  thought.  Between  them  and  mid- 
night butchery — under  God  who  "taught  her  hands  to  war" — 
was  only  her  puny  arm  to  save  both  herself  and  them. 

If  there  were  any  spies  lurking  around  the  house  watching 
her  movements,  they  should  see  she  was  not  afraid.  Entering 
her  bedroom,  to  give  herself  an  appearance  of  ease,  she  picked 
up  some  sewing,  but,  at  the  same  moment,  unconsciously 
glanced  at  the  lowered  window.  Pressed  against  the  pane  of 
glass,  she  saw  the  hideous  face  of  her  negro  washerwoman, 
Barbara,  peering  into  the  room ;  and  heard  her  frightened  voice 
exclaiming:  "For  Gawd's  sake,  Miss,  do  open  de  door  and  let 
me  in.  Dey  say  de  Ku  Kluxes  is  out  to-night,  and  I'se  scairt  to 
death." 

Mrs.  Thurman  had  too  much  at  stake  to  be  opening  her 
doors  at  midnight  to  admit  a  negro  woman  who  might  be  an 
emissary  of  the  prowling,  murderous,  savage  negro  horde  of 


86 WAR-TIME   SKETCHES 

the  Island.  Too  gentle  of  heart  to  deny  sympathy  where  she 
could  not  give  help,  she  rapped  on  the  window  and  called  out: 
"Go  at  once  to  the  quarters,  Barbara,  and  if  you  are  all  quiet 
and  well-behaved,  I  will  see  that  you  are  protected  from  the 
Ku  Klux  should  they  come."  With  a  half-choked  moan  of 
fear  and  the  cry:  "Oh,  Gawd!  dere  comes  de  Ku  Kluxes,"  the 
negroes  threw  up  her  arms  and  vanished.  In  the  thick  dark- 
ness, Mrs.  Thurman  saw  nothing,  but  it  flashed  upon  her  like 
an  illumination  that  the  singular  disappearance  of  the  planters 
was  explained — they  were  members  of  the  Ku  Klux  Klan,  sud- 
denly called  out.  In  those  days,  a  man's  oath  to  the  Order 
allowed  him  not  to  tell  the  secret  even  to  the  wife  of  his  bosom. 
Not  until  vears  after  the  Klan  was  dissolved  did  many  find 
it  out. 

Mrs.  Thurman  was  now  assured  that  a  band  of  the  re- 
markable organization,  formed  for  the  purpose  of  keeping  the 
negro  and  carpet-bagger  element  in  order,  could  not  be  far 
distant.  By  their  sudden,  mysterious  appearances  after  night- 
fall, apparently  from  nowhere,  the  noiseless  tread  of  their 
horses'  muffled  feet,  fierce  grips,  ghostly  utterances,  but  above 
all  by  their  swift,  judicial  punishment  for  crimes  committed, 
they  kept  the  half-savage,  excitable  freedmen  from  making 
of  the  South  a  second  St.  Domingo  or  Hayti. 

Mrs.  Thurman  turned  from  the  window  in  peace  to  await 
the  dawn.  The  peril  had  passed,  her  vigil  ended.  Her  heart 
bounded  with  joy,  for,  with  the  Klan  as  guardian  of  peace  and 
order  abroad,  she  knew  that  her  home  and  babes  were  in 
safety.  The  next  day  Doctor  Thurman  arrived  with  troops  from 
Natchez,  but  the  negroes  had  left  the  Island  and,  with  rapine, 
fire  and  slaughter  attendant  upon  their  steps,  had  gone  in  the 
direction  of  Fort  Adams,  twelve  miles  distant. 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE.  87 


FREEDOM'S  SHRIEK. 

IN  the  piney  woods  Parish  of  St.  Helena,  La.,  one  morning 
in  the  summer  of  1865,  shortly  after  the  Confederate  na- 
tion had  been  buried  at  Appomattox,  a  horsemen  rode 
out  from  the  little  city  of  Greensburg  and  ambled  along  the 
dusty  country  road.  He  seemed  uncertain  as  to  his  route,  and 
his  military  uniform  of  blue  showed  plainly  that  he  was  a 
stranger  in  a  strange  land.  Pausing  in  front  of  a  two-storied 
dwelling  as  if  in  doubt,  he  finally  opened  a  gate  and  leisurely 
rode  through  the  Staump — an  inclosure  that  served  as  a  bar- 
rier to  the  house-yard  beyond.  There  was  an  impatience  at 
the  sultry  heat  and  a  decided  'business  air  about  the  stranger 
that  prevented — while  curiously  glancing  around — his  taking 
in  the  beauty  of  the  blossomy  hedges  and  their  perfume  floating 
in  the  air.  Reining  up  his  horse,  he  secured  it  to  a  post  and  ad- 
vanced to  meet  Mr.  C — ,  whose  residence  he  was  about  to  enter. 
The  Southern  planter  received  his  unknown  visitor  with 
that  habit  of  courteous  hospitality  which,  for  generations,  had 
been  handed  down  in  his  family  as  a  custom  of  the  country. 
Invited  to  enter  and  be  seated,  the  gentleman  in  blue  briefly 
informed  Mr.  C — as  to  his  mission — that  he  had  been  sent  by 
his  superior  of  the  Freedman's  Bureau  from  a  branch  estab- 
lished at  Baton  Rouge,  to  read  to  the  negroes  on  his  place  the 
Emancipation  Proclamation  of  the  late  President  of  the  United 
States.  This  official  declaration  of  their  political  status  as 
freedmen  he  desired  to  acquaint  them  with,  without  delay. 
Would  Mr.  C — call  them  together  to  hear  the  document  read? 
The  request,  though  courteously  put,  was  a  veiled  com- 
mand. Mr.  C — ,  recognizing  his  impotence  to  disregard  it, 
at  once  signified  acquiescence  and  rose  to  give  the  necessary 
order. 

To  the  near-by  quarters  and  over  the  broad  fields,  the 
plantation  bell  sent  a  sharp,  quick  summons.  The  negroes  well 
understood  the  language  of  that  bell.  Imperatively,  it  meant 
prompt  obedience  to  its  call.  The  field-hand  quickly  unbuck- 
ling his  mule,  mounted  and  rode  to  the  house,  leaving  the 
plough  in  the  furrow;  those  who  had  not  finished   their  tin 


88 WAR-TIME   SKETCHES 

buckets  of  dinner  under  the  solitary  tree  left  in  the  cotton 
field,  jumped  to  their  feet  and  with  food  in  hand,  munched  as 
they  ran ;  and  women  from  the  quarters,  with  babies  in  arms 
and  pickaninnies  clinging  to  their  skirts,  joined  the  swelling 
throng  of  blacks  that  came  in  answer  to  that  imperious,  far- 
reaching,  yet  musical,  jangle  of  bell. 

There  was  something  portentous  in  the  air.  All  felt  it; 
what  could  it  mean?  "Dat  bell  never  talk  dat  way  befo,"  they 
assured  each  other  as  they  crowded  through  the  gate  into  the 
backyard.  The  mystery  was  more  exciting  even  than  Christ- 
mas, the  Fourth  of  July,  or  a  funeral,  or  wedding  at  the  quar- 
ters— the  festivals  and  days  that  usually  stirred  the  quiet  pool 
of  their  simple,  uneventful  lives. 

At  last,  they  were  all  gathered,  a  dark,  motley,  question- 
ing throng  looking  up  with  wondering  eyes  at  the  occupants 
of  the  gallery,  while  soliloquizing  under  their  breath  :  "Yes, 
dar  is  Marster  and  ole  Miss,  and  de  chilluns  and  de  young 
English  lady  what  saved  Pomp  when  de  Yanks  was  raidin'  de 
place ;  but  who  am  dat  soldier-man  lookin'  so  piert,  and  wid  his 
hand  wropped  round  a  big  sheet  of  paper?" 

The  Government  official  without  more  ado,  and  intent 
only  on  getting  through  with  his  business,  advanced  to  the 
edge  of  the  gallery.  Placing  one  hand  on  the  balustrade,  in 
the  other  he  held  the  Emancipation  Proclamation,  and,  while 
watching  with  curiosity  the  dark  faces  below  to  see  its  effect, 
read  with  emphasis  the  fatal  words  which  assumed  to  place 
the  dull,  ignorant,  semi-barbarous  slaves  of  a  Southern  plan- 
tation upon  a  plane  of  social  equality  with  that  of  their  master 
— one  who  was  not  only  "the  heir  of  all  the  ages"  in  point  of 
culture,  but  whose  birth  was  often  of  the  proudest !  Stripped 
of  its  legal  verbiage  and  rhetorical  varnish,  the  pith  and  core 
of  Abraham  Lincoln's  published  ordinance  which  concerned 
the  negroes  recited  that  ".  .  .  henceforth,  throughout  Louisi- 
ana, all  persons  held  as  slaves  shall  be  free  .  .  .  the  military 
and  naval  authorities  shall  recognize  and  maintain  the  freedom 
of  said  persons  .  .  .  and  they  are  recommended  to  labor  faith- 
fuly  for  reasonable  wages."  Such  is  a  fragment  of  the  docu- 
ment that,  in  the  words  of  Earl  Russell,  had  "applied  to  the 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE. 89 

States  where  Government  held  no  power,  and  did  not  where 
it  was  supreme." 

The  negroes  gaped  and  stared — about  as  wise  when  the 
reader  ended  as  when  he  began.  In  a  dazed  way  they  looked 
at  each  other,  feeling  that  some  matter  vitally  affecting  them- 
selves had  occurred,  but  helpless  to  trace  it  out.  Had  the  skies 
fallen  and  scattered  rainbows?  In  this  sudden  breaking  loose 
of  Freedom  it  seeemd  as  though  the  instincts  of  motherhood 
had  gone  astray,  for  a  baby  wriggled  from  its  unheeding 
mother's  arms  and  sprawling  upon  the  ground,  she  was  content 
to  let  it  lie  in  the  hot  sun  like  a  small  black  turtle.  At  this 
moment,  out  on  the  fringe  of  the  circle  of  newly  made  freedmen, 
a  ripple  of  talk  in  undertone  broke  the  dead  pause  succeeding 
the  change  of  old  things  into  new.  A  tall,  black  woman  wear- 
ing a  man's  trousers  under  her  short  cotton  skirts,  with  the 
air  of  an  African  chieftainess,  raised  her  hand.  She  had  caught 
the  words  "Lincoln"  and  "free" — the  only  words  that,  in  the 
long  paper  just  read  had  for  her  any  meaning.  Haltingly, 
circuitously,  her  memory  groped  after  an  incident  of  the  past 
years,  in  which  an  Abolitionist  emissary  probably  was  the  hero. 
Turning  to  the  bewildered  crowd  in  the  rear,  she  explained 
with  a  vigor  that  set  her  bandanna  "cornus"  quivering :  "Yas- 
sum,  dese  eyes  done  seen  dat  very  man  he  talk  about — de 
onliest  man  what  could  set  us  free.  I  seed  him  in  a  red  flannel 
shirt  and  he  had  on  raggedty  breeches,  and  he  tole  me  pintedly 
his  name  was  Marse  Linkum  and  dat  he  was  comin'  to  set  us 
free  and  give  us  a  pacel  o'  land." 

Here  another  voice  added  his  quota  of  information :  "Yes, 
Mr.  Lincollom,  dats  a  bery  good  name.  I  hearn  of  it  in  a 
newspaper  one  of  dem  raidin'  gen'mens  lef,  when  dey  rode  outer 
de  front  gate."  "Sunlight  never  shined  in  my  cabin  door  befo' 
dis  day  dat  tells  me  I  is  free,"  mumbled  the  carriage  driver. 
"Dat's  a  bery  perlite  gen'man.  He  says  we  cullud  fokes  is  as  free 
as  Marster,  and  we  is  got  to  be  paid  for  our  work,  too.  Lord, 
Lord,  is  I  a-dreamin'?  But  what  is  us  gwine  to  do  for  some- 
thin'  to  eat?" 

Here  into  this  rosy  glamour  of  freedom,  the  shovel  and 
hoe  laid  down,  and  unrolling  before  their  eyes  a  bright  vista 
of  long  days  lolling  in  the  warm  sunshine,  doing  nothing  but 


90 WAR-TIME   SKETCHES 

what  was  prompted  by  the  moment's  whim,  suddenly  obtruded 
the  prosaic,  severely  practical  question  of  meat  and  bread.  It 
was  a  sibilant  note  that  would  not  down. 

Poor  black  dupes !  Until  that  day,  what  a  kindly  bond 
had  existed  between  themselves  and  Master!  For  the  first 
time  since  their  creation  was  now  stamped  upon  their  plastic, 
childish  minds,  the  dear  falsehood  of  equality — that  hence- 
forth, through  act  of  law,  they  would  be  equal  to  the  all- 
conquering,  enlightened,  ever-dominant  Caucasian  race !  That 
specious  lie  caught  their  childish  fancy — eagerly  they  seized 
and  hugged  it  closely.  To  the  negro,  "Marster"  was  the  syn- 
onym for  all  visible  good,  and  to  hear  a  wonderful  story  read 
that  made  them  "gentmans,"  same  as  Marster,  was  as  if  they 
were  under  a  spell  of  necromancy. 

In  the  tree-branches  above,  a  mocking-bird  began  its 
strange,  sweet  medley  of  song  that  was  confusing,  and  the 
scent  of  the  Cherokee  roses  distilled  by  the  hot  sun  subtly 
mixed  with  this  astonishing  news  of  freedom,  so  that  like  a 
potent  essence  it  crept  to  the  brain.  The  crowd  wavered  in 
the  bright  sunlight.  Old  and  young  they  had  always  moved 
to  orders  and  they  had  not  been  told  to  go  away.  The  reading 
was  over,  they  were  uncertain  what  to  do.  If  it  was  true  that 
they  were  free,  then  they  wouldn't  go  to  the  corn  and  cotton 
fields  in  that  blazing  sun,  but  lie  down  in  the  green  grass  and 
go  to  sleep,  or  go  fishing  when  it  was  cooler,  or  go  visiting  and 
find  out  if  slave  days  were  sure  enough  over. 

Into  this  doubt  and  indecision,  rang  out  the  voice  of  Mr. 
C — ,  clearly  and  incisively.  Coming  to  the  edge  of  the  gallery 
so  that  all  could  see  and  hear  him,  he  cried  "Halt!"  Uncer- 
taintly  vanished  at  that  well-known  voice.  Like  soldiers  at 
the  word  of  command,  instantly  they  were  "at  attention." 

"Men  and  women" — he  criea — "you  have  just  heard  what 
this  gentleman  has  read  to  you,  that  you  are  all  free  from  the 
oldest  hand  to  the  last  baby  born  on  the  place,  just  as  free  as 
he  is,  as  I  am,  as  the  President  at  Washington.  But  he  has 
told  you  that  you  have  to  work,  get  pay  for  it,  take  care  of 
yourselves  and  behave.  You  have  heard  all  this.  Now  listen 
to  what  I  have  to  say." 


HISTORICAL  AND  OTHERWISE. 91 

"You  all  know  that  I  have  been  a  kind  Master,  as  my 
farther  was  before  me.  I  have  fed,  clothed,  sheltered  and 
cared  for  you.  In  return  you  have  worked.  Now  any  one 
who  wants  to  leave  the  old  plantation  and  work  elsewhere  can 
do  so,  as  soon  as  he  gets  ready.  Whoever  stays  with  me  will 
get  honest  pay  for  his  work.  And  now  I  want  to  tell  you 
something  more.  About  this  work  there  is  to  be  no  shirking. 
You  have  got  to  take  orders  from  me,  and  there  is  to  be  no 
more  foolishness  in  the  future  about  your  working,  than  there 
has  been  in  the  past.  On  this  place  I  am  always  Master, 
yet  always  your  friend.  Now  go  to  your  work  and  to  the 
quarters." 

"Yes  Marster;  sure  enough,  Marster  ;'deed  you  are  right. 
Marster,"  broke  in  cheery  tone  from  the  sable  crowd  as  with 
an  obedience  that  was  instinctive,  the  negroes  briskly  moved 
from  the  yard.  The  mirage  of  "do  nothing  all  day  long"  faded 
into  nothingness ;  all  desire  for  a  siesta  in  the  soft,  green  grass 
under  a  pine  tree,  or  the  attractions  of  the  fish  pond  or  bayou 
had  melted  away  under  the  cool,  crisp  commands  of  the  mas- 
ter. Again  the  plantation  bell  rang.  Its  voice  was  the  symbol 
of  authority.  Like  the  great  iron  Roland — liberty-loving  bell 
of  Ghent — it  had  called  men  and  women  to  freedom.  But  the 
free  burghers  of  Ghent  had  free  souls  that  resisted  servitude. 
Here,  to  the  brazen  clang  of  the  bell,  slaves  both  in  mind  and 
body  had  responded.  Forthwith  the  plowman  returned  to  his 
forsaken  furrow,  still  doubtful  if  he  were  not  walking  in  his 
sleep,  or  dreaming;  the  cotton  hand  shouldered  his  hoe  and 
hurried  to  make  up  for  lost  time.  To  their  elemental,  una- 
wakened  intelligence,  liberty  meant  only  such  as  the  wild  ani- 
mals of  the  woods  knew — an  existence  rounded  by  eating, 
sleeping  and  idling. 

The  agent  of  the  Freedmen's  Bureau,  crumpling  his  proc- 
lamation in  pocket  passed  a  handkerchief  over  his  heated 
brow.  He  loved  not  the  fierce  heat  of  a  Louisiana  sun  and  the 
day's  work  had  been  strenuous.  His  lip  curled  contemptuous- 
ly as  he  followed  with  his  eyes  the  men  and  women  obediently 
filing  out  to  the  fields.  "Cattle" — was  the  word  that  escaped 
him.  His  duty  to  his  superior  had  ended,  and  the  consequences 
of  his  morning's  work  were  for  others  to  shoulder.     Affably 


92 WAR-TIME  SKETCHES 

taking  leave  of  Mr.  C —  he  rode  back  to  Greensburg  scarcely 
vouchsafing  a  thought — at  the  most  one  of  indifference — to 
the  momentous  problem  that  day  given  to  the  planter  to  work 
out. 


(The  End) 


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«Tbii'£9'£S@0@I» 


11  H~l3dVH 


0  IV  ONdO  Al:S'd3/ 


